My life has been the poem I would have writ
But I could not both live and utter it.

Henry David Thoreau

He sees every moment is a window on time,
craving a life of sweet-smelling attar,
and with no regrets, (yet), he plunges into
Being, with bare-knuckled hands.

He cuts down bountiful shag oak trees,
and builds a house on top of a waterfall.
Red-wing blackbirds and cedar waxwings
flutter over colonies of cattails.

He devours “Ada,” and “Lolita,”
chasing after Monarchs and Malachites
to become the best lepidopterist in town.

He scuba-dives, spearing electric eels,
and photographs the clink and clatter
of angelskins, surrounded by a spectrum
of golden-yellow, pink and turquoise coral branches.

Before taking off in a Piper Cub
to prospect for gold in the frozen tundra of Alaska,
he earns black belts in akido and jujutsu.
His wind-burned face and scruffy beard
are on the cover of National Geographic.

He vows to change careers every seven years,
becoming everything he’s capable of being.

He wants to pull the mysteries and silences
out of himself, and carve a smile
in the contours of his life.