Poem: The Weighing of Spices

The Weighing of Spices

A deep breath. Another. There is work to be done
You are being weighed, measured,
less by others than by your own scale.
A bright light brings it all into relief.

You are aware of how others measure you.
Past and present they have their visions, each varying
in awareness of the stories that make you,
the stages of brokenness and celebration
and the building of bricks, one on the others
that is your constant.

A deep breath. Another. There is work to be done.
a measuring out of what is left, the last spices
of a long summer, sorted, dried, saved
for the inevitable winter.

It is to be short, this winter.
That is what history tells you.
There is less need to save, than to choose
which of the spices to use, the best of them,
the ones that will leave you and those you know
remembering the meal, never knowing
which will be the last.

About this poem.

As health has returned, and the possibility of an earlyish death behind me, I find myself thinking a lot of what to do with the years ahead. What I do with them has come to mean more to me. Every pleasure means more to me. And my past comes to mean less and less.


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