Sitting at Powell’s

I sit in this bookstore
where I feel detached
from the young and
too young to be the old.
Miles away, memories
come in with the fog
and rest their toes at
the edge of the water.
The only promise of life
is the sound of fury
from beyond what
only the lost can see.
I can only hope my
ghost is always there,
walking the shoreline
and dreaming, neither
young nor old, but
timeless in this melody
that never leaves us.

Between silence and a whisper,
I find magic in the moments
of snow on rooftops,
fresh under my feet and in
the remnants it leaves
on the strangers I meet.
A ghost among them,
I’m very much alive,
sure of my fortune,
I fly rather than run
along this path of mine.

Near the lake, I pass an
aging couple, gracefully
breathing in the fresh snow.
To my nod they respond
with a kind return.

I pause to contemplate. 

Along my path, I meet
young lovers full of
dreams, a gap between
them, they wait on timing
and love to embrace the
moment that could change
everything forever. 

I pause to remember. 

The lady in her late forties,
looking seventy, for
reasons kept secret,
I see her life behind her as
misery gathers in her mind,
sticking on her face, a
stunning darkness in this
wintery white surrounding.

I pause to mourn. 

I watch a man on his boat,
flying all sails out
between the flakes.
In him I see the adventurer,
inspired by the peace around
him, while still confronting
a past he welcomes on
this lone journey.  

I pause to dream. 

And then as usual and
without warning, the one
who haunts my dreams with
light in her eyes and freshness
in her smile, finds me here,
where she cannot stay
unnoticed in this moment,
a snapshot destined to
forever flood my mind
with promise and hope. 

I pause to regret.