The Present Now and Forever

Last year’s dead leaves

are buried in the dross of this year’s Autumn,

like memories, even the recent kind,

barely poking through the fresh fallout

from what is known.

It’s constant,

this shifting of resources

from the present to the future,

leaving the past to glean what it can

from what presses so hard upon it.

Even spring eschews the fact

there ever was a spring before.

And summers rope off other summers.

They’re museum pieces open few hours

and with time-resistant viewings.

From my window,

on a May morning,

I see trees festooned with green,

flowers in abundance.

No other window can compete.