Fugit, inreparible tempus

(1)
Speak not of farsight
Not today, not in this
Winter that has run
for many seasons worth.
To speak but of one:
The cruelest of months
He proclaimed it,
Looking to the seasons
As if the answer
Were not always evident
The next one, my love,
It is always the next.

(2)
Speak not of farsight
But rather, what is closest
to the mind, and to
the Truth, the heart of it:
If I am able
To see at all, it is
All because of you:
The ones who lifted me,
Yes, and those who built
Ladders, decks, and machans,
The ones who — ever so
thoughtfully —left little
Notes on soft napkins:
Interpone tuis interdum gaudia curis
Ut possis animo quemuis sufferre laborem
I read, and took heed
Even as I dried my tears.

(3)
The ones who set up
Telescopes, positioned
At just the right height
For curious children
to gaze at the sky
And doubtfully whisper:
“I don’t think that one
Looks at all like a goat.”
And so start to learn
The secret adults whisper
Late at night, alone,
When no-one can listen —
It’s all made up, love
It’s all made up anyway
And you can draw too—
Imagine what you will.

(4)
It is because of
My grandfather, who brought
His binoculars
back from the darkest days
from Japan, from War;
Field glasses, he said
Polish the lenses clean,
And remember not
To stare straight at the sun
Shade them with your hand
And try to spot eagles.
I’ve kept them away, safe
In their old leather case
Black, faded, sturdy
Steel button still shiny
Lenses, well, they might
need polishing again
Or maybe not: fuzzy
Doesn’t sound all that bad.

(5)
It is because you
Put all of this in place
I have ascended
Not to look skywards, but
back. They say: a man
might point to the moon, yet
another sees only
the finger. I see
all the constellations
in the calluses,
the wrinkles that record
this labour of love
on each palm, on each face
that has been written
into these words today.

(6)
Speak not of farsight
Not today, not this year:
Que sera, sera
My grandfather would say
and laugh. The future
looms hazy, uncaring,
Let us care for you
as you have cared for me
Instead. If I am
able to see — not far
but at all—it is
because of you; because
of the kindness of
family, of friends, of
strangers, of strangers
who became family
who became friends, and
because of all that they
have sacrificed over
the years; and over
this year that has lasted
many winters worth.
What shall we celebrate
if not this kindness?
And the memories of
this kindness, the lines
it has written across
constellations, faces,
stories, horizons, palms.

(7)

Speak of gratitude, which dwells not on tempus inreparible
Fugitive? Well let it escape us;
memory will suffice for warmth.
We can stare straight at an imagined sun.