As I enter the decade of death
and plan for endless dreamless sleep
certain as Earth turning from light to night
I recall the spiritual seasons of my life:
hope exploding from an atmospheric prism
joy blazing through the gold lens of a star
adventure adrift with leaves on the wind
crystallized languor frozen in place

despite flickering memoirs of bliss
like sparkling sunshine through breaks
in a cloud-crowded sky of indigo blue
my mind rewinds moments of pain
as if highlights from a constant cinema
featuring every being I have known
in need, love, abuse, joy, and sorrow--
tragicomedy worthy of a reckless writer

aware now of each heartbeat
and wondering which will be my last
I mourn the loss of life in brain and brawn
but mostly bemoan what might have been
had I the prudence to expect events
occurring around the next twist or turn
events that make all the difference
for that extraordinary chance to exist

but regret is a poison potion
that lowers the view below the horizon
and prevents a vision of goodness
a revelation too often lost in fancy
for I must know that as a mere man
I can no more change my story
than stop the stretch of shadows
draping the angles off a redwood tree

and my meager human existence
for all its erratic blinking in the dark
is meaningless in the cosmoscape
but for any benefit I have bestowed
for the good of other living things--
fellow mortals who dwelt with me
on this grand sphere for blips in time
and finally disappeared in the dust