Now I am sixty in less than a month.
I’ve seen seven hundred twenty moons
blaze up and light the orchards
and the sea then fade away.
It’s time to deconstruct my life;
no time to rest, to elegize the years.
What’s past was wasted or was spent.
But how to dismantle and renew?
Does anyone remember where
we stored the paint?
Yes, I know I shouldn’t joke
but sometimes either you laugh
or cry, can’t sleep, or sleep through
half the morning, burning days.

Seven hundred moons or more
or less in sixty years, though most
of them rose and shone unseen
on the roof of the house.
And I will tell you a secret:
the mind does not remember pain.
It might recall the lurid shadows
where pain rose and the light
that drove it away. So we should
go out when the moon is full
and pray for the sun to rise.

J. Kyle Kimberlin
Draft 4, 5.07.2021
Creative Commons Licensed