Lost in the shuffle
the present seems far away,
like the whisper of tires in the rain,
like the voice of a whippoorwill
summers past, like the light
of stars gone dead but still shining
in this incipient night.
The timer above the stove
will soon stop, its green glow
go red, will chime twice
go silent.
There is no intent,
the Buddha’s moon-faced mask
will remain fragmented
under the maple tree.
You don’t have to fix it.


                                                 C.