"There is an unknown hour" -- April 17, National Poetry Month
There is an unknown hour
that I have passed each day
which will mark the time
I must depart
for the journey of no return.
Shingles on my roof, black and gray,
are covered in fervent green
moss. The gutters are filled with brown
and red leaves from the fallen oak
strewn across the front lawn.
None of us knows the day or hour.
I suspect few would want to know.
Breathing in the lemon thyme
calms my aching body, lavender
relaxes my weary blood vessels.
Sharp oregano open my eyes,
and the wind reminds me of now.
My son kicks the ball against the concrete wall
of the garage, while my daughter slyly
photographs the tiny voles.
My bride is sleeping. This is what it is all about.
I love being.
I hope I get to do it again.