Ask me in ten years.
Funny thing about time, I won’t be able to see myself in ten years for ten years.
It’s a river I’ve never run before. How could I possibly know where it goes?
Ask me in ten years.
Funny thing about time, I won’t be able to see myself in ten years for ten years.
It’s a river I’ve never run before. How could I possibly know where it goes?
Sinuous channels
cut through the
river's muddy
bottom,
carrying clear water
ever downward
- ever onward.
From fortress walls
it's all been seen --
drought and flood,
but something always
trickled through.
As it was before those
stones were stacked.
As it will be when the
last rubble crumbles
into uncut
dust & rock.

the grain is ripe.
the days are short.
the farmer, weary.
Definitely not. There are – literally – robots on the streets where I am today. There were cows on the streets where I was a year ago.
I don’t find picturing the future to be a productive endeavor. A year from now the robot wave will have hit Bangalore and cattle in the streets may be a fixture of Atlanta (because raising one’s own cow will be the only way to afford beef.) [Not to mention, there’s a significant chance that I’ll be in neither of those places.]
Today is the first day of the rest of this week.

cave hermit
can’t see farmers in fields, just
brown to green to tan.

late afternoon sun
penetrates the pavilion —-
causing napper’s turn.

through the Autumn,
one tree holds leaves longer,
then drops them faster.
I assume just a little more of all the things I already do, with a substantial amount of that time being spent in rest.
The thought, “If I didn’t have to rest I could do so much more” is one of modern life’s most cancerous modes of thinking.
Didn’t we all learn during the pandemic that when commutes and other travel / in-person time obligations go away, life fluidly swells to fill the void. Like having to learn Zoom, etc.
Life gives no free lunches, learn to live with it.