What is it waits for me to do
when all I cannot do?

Before me lie gardens of green and time
fertile, spring sweetened in the evening
when my life, blown as wild grasses,
bends westerly towards the sea.
Even the moon, three-quarters in the night sky,
sends me a line on a cascading arc
to pull me along where I must go.

What waits for me to do but my own self?
Not the garden or the wheel of time –
It is I, this moment, who must do
and wonder whether there will be another.

Portland, Oregon – May 18, 2016