Fill a cardboard box with your life:
Come-agains and forget-me-nots,
silver souvenirs of sojourns long forgotten,
a scroll of memories rolled up and delivered
to the door of the past waiting to be rediscovered.
There is no moment, there is no now,
the Crepe Myrtle and Spanish Moss
comfort me while I sit in their shade,
sparse as it may be, and I recall a time
when the days were filled with squandered hours.
Whispered promises broken in time,
the promise of youth wagered in Faust's bargain,
sound empty when they are made-
hollow words never spoken
but assumed by every man.
Your wishes consume all that is around you,
making a mockery of the reckoning to come;
the crucible waits for all, nobility but for a few,
and when the skin withers, the beauty
of the poetry of death fades into sad regret.
Art McLean
Michael Dingler
February 2005
