LIke the First Time.
It’s the beginning again that makes you sigh,
the mere fact that you need to,
that the work done is gone,
not quite wasted, but of little value
in the new tide. That you need to whitewash the canvas
yet again and go again into the uncomfortable places
of risk and uncertainty.
But the alterative is premature rot,
a pretending that you are alive
when instead you are slowly dying of sameness.
You have lived that path and know
it carries its own perils,
Mississippi riverbanks, washed from underneath
until they fall, and wash away to the delta,
all mud and muck.
No, better this, the always starting anew.
Counting on nothing to stay the same,
reveling in the moment, trying, even in your wearniess
to savor and step into everything
like the first time.
About This Poem
Inspired by an old version of software that I have held on to, resolutely not wanting to move to the new version, but which suddenly no longer works, so on to the new version I go, reminding me of the many times I have started over in this life and the futile resistance and how much better off I am when I leap into the void than when I don’t.
Little things do that to me, send me off to philosophic thoughts that seem way out of proportion to the original thought. It’s part of why I write poetry, to wrench things back to the essential.
The picture is my studio today. A new, large canvas almost ready to paint.