Suddenly

I expect to grow old, yes.  

It breaches softly, the creeping sense,  

like a leaking faucet, drip, pause,  

drip—moments pooling into certainty.  

Routine stacks its bricks around me,  

deadlines chime, the clock grins wide,  

and “someday” becomes a quiet thief.  

But then sunlight cuts me open.  

Through the kitchen window it spills,  

ricochets off greasy cups, stacked plates—  

birds scream for nothing, for everything.  

The breeze mutinies my lazy lungs.  

And suddenly I burn with knowing.  

This—the now—this endless minute ends.  

The dishes don’t matter as much  

as the wind, the light, the heat.  

My chest stretches, cracks, unzips itself,  

gasping for more of what vanishes.  

I want it to drown me; let it,  

each cell aching, a waterfall’s flood.  

All too soon this moment will rot,  

dry under the sun like old fruit.