Here I Depart

Along this old road, bloom violets

they seem like a funny flower

made of twilight colors. What now?

I stand off the side of the road,

my car has broken down. Alone

in a vast field, a single road

cuts through. I traveled far and long

over winding hills, down valleys,

and through green dells. Across deserts

into canyons, from coast to coast

to forests and flowers. Over

mountains and plains, to rural towns

and sprawling cities. Finally,

it broke, my old car I knew well.

Sure, I could fix it. Make it last

a few hundred or a thousand

miles more. I still have more to see,

more places to go, but should I?

The wind kicks up my hair and sweeps

through the grasses, I just stand there

staring at my car. What now creeps

into my heart? Despair? Sadness?

Pain? No, it is like exhaustion.

I could travel more, but I will

never plant any roots. A ghost

who passes through but is nothing

in truth. Just an observer stuck

on the sidelines without

anyone to know or to hold.

Maybe this is a sign my time

of wandering and exploring

must come to a close. Let the ink

dry on this page of my life, let

my persuasion change for some home

could call. I kick the tire and sigh,

so difficult not to lament

the change in phase. My spirit yells

just as my car spins, unable

to wheel. It is time. That long pull

into tomorrow and ever

onward as seasons pass each year.

From birth to youth to adulthood

and into quiet elder days.

Aging like fine wine until last

but not least, the Reaper arrives.

I squat down by the road, my hand

picking a violet to twirl

as I whirl in thoughts. Oh, my car.

Oh, my time. For melancholy

is oh so bittersweet, my heart

hurts knowing that this, too, must pass.

Farewell, my car of old. Farewell,

I say to rusted metal. I pause

to look up at the sky. Today

shall die turning to yesterday,

just as tomorrow must arrive

one more time. I stand up as wind

swipes up, sending waves across

the grass. Oh. The sun will soon set

and no one else has driven by.

Is this some solipsistic dream

which I have fallen for? Lonely

in mind while ignoring others

as they pass by. Has an hour gone

and went already? The next act

must arrive despite what my heart

wishes. A small doorway opens

under the setting light, the glass

reflects the change off the windshield.

Both mirror and illusion show

a ghost that would be called me. Hope

is a gift, and yet, we fear change

which it may bring. Funny flowers

will twinkle soon, and the violets

will be buried, too. My finger

trails the metal door of my old car.

How long must I take to say one

simple word? When night arrives? When

dawn pours in? When the years have gone

and I am gray? Must I move on?

It does not take a stoic to learn

Seneca's truth, to feel and live

shows that nothing is durable.

Not I or you, no, not Roman

nor my car. Not even the phase

or era of our life can last.

The Buddha claimed that suffering

comes from our attachments, if we

wish to break free, we must let go

first. So, acceptance or something

akin to that would not be bad.

I sigh and open the car door,

reaching to take my other things.

With bag in hand and stars above

I close the door and leave with night

in turn. This road where violets bloom

and souls become dew can now claim

my car. For to linger longer

will only hurt me. Night is good

for farewells and next chapters.