by Peter Bloxsom
So frail it seems, the chain of whim and chance
that led your twisting track to here and now —
this halt in blue-green hillside happenstance,
a pause in the long trip down.
For now, this here and now — of all carrefours —
is all, this slope, this sky, this grass-gleam bliss,
this moment. Yet all moments gone, all hours,
all days were compost to this.
The past that died in the dance has left its sway
imprinted in the now — years spun to dust
that you might pause on a darkening slope today,
exactly as you must.