Selected Poems from When I Was Young and Old

WHEN I WAS YOUNG AND OLD

Out of nowhere we find ourselves
stretched out under the sun on the summer lawn,
and I saw how lively, how supple, he was
in each new pose, as I breathed in, yes, and out yes,

and when we sat down to eat I heard every word
he spoke, yes, as if he knew I would always understand,
and I asked for soup that was green and wild,
and he wanted to taste it, and I said yes again,

and on the mountains we slid so smoothly
through snow drifts, down icy-steep ravines,
on our two simple, matter-of-fact feet, yes —
and when I wandered off alone,
the wolf who followed us did not attack,
but went his solitary way, so I felt safe, yes.

And when we lay down together, at last,
I was amazed how much care he gave
to my humble, forgotten ears and cosmic toes,
and when he kissed me, I slipped like lightning
into another world, yes and yes and yes.

This all happened when he was young and I was old,
and I was young and he was old,
and it still happens whenever a dream arrives at night
to assure me it was all meant to be.

But now I wonder, is my dream more alive
than the poem I write about the dream?
And is my life as alive, as real, as the poem or the dream?

Yes, and yes, and yes.

FREE SWIMMER

When I swim out into the lake
and travel the ancient waterways,

the shifting current embraces me and convinces me
that I have fins and a tail,

and that I’m stronger and more supple
than I will ever be on land.

Everything’s suddenly so clear.
I don’t need or want anyone.

They’re welcome to join me,
but it’s sweeter if they don’t.

I don’t want any thing, either,
since everything is here, fresh and fishy,

cool and warm, sparkling and somber,
with the oldest colors and shapes on earth,

each a flowing part of where and who I am —
now, and long ago, and in times to come.

I am not any one, or any thing,
and yet I’ve never felt so sure of my next move.