It’s been raining all morning
a concert of irregular rhythms—
quick, light scatterings on the roof,
then loud pulses overpowering even
the sounds of the brook nearby.

Low mountains encircle this valley;
through the day I look to them
for their strong, steady presence.
Today, though, the distant view
is covered with blankets of gray clouds.

The near things are in better focus now—
the old maple out front, uneven steps
at the porch door, lilacs about to bloom.
The air is full with new season,
tendrils of renewal grow where I stand.

I was busy planning my future while
Time quietly unfolded several decades.
I walked through them without realizing
how quickly and finally they would fold back
into the map of what has become my life.

I see the time left to me as addendum,
a final chance to savor the irregular rhythms
of each day given, be it many years or few.
The meaning of it all remains elusive and silent.
Perhaps it waits within the near things.

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