As It Was


As it was in the beginning,
so still it is.

The hourglass turned,
the sand measured time, again.

This is no tragedy, merely
the nature of things.

I perceive I am dying,
as does everything, but since birth.

The Mayfly, the tortoise;
the orchid, mosquito. We

don’t leave much behind.
Remorseless winds grind even

Pharoh’s stone piles to dust.
(Like him, I can’t imagine a world without me.)

It’s hard to see past that.
But we ride the last grain of sand through

the passage, just wide enough, and this spirit
escapes time and space, again.

For now, I only wonder to what I’m ancestral
This time. Was I any good?