I like the way the horses keep running

after the race is done. I savor the last

flowers of autumn, the last glass of wine.

I prefer landscapes void of humans.

 

It is not a love affair with the past.

I am glad all that is done as well. It’s

the pleasure of resting on my oars,

the sweet taste of solitude, not loss.

 

When I look at old photos I see the sin

of  moments arrested, memory enshrined.

Time will not be stymied.

I drift with the current into the dusk.