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.