The Middle Age

I have a predilection for melancholy,
a generous bent toward nostalgia,
and I surrender completely to 
isolated flashes of memory 
in the gloaming. 

I’ve spent hours in meditation,
bending toward the present,
then settling into a place
of peaceful nothingness
in the moment.

I’ve loved so many ways,
the love of blood, and the
love of heart, and the love
of so much more and 
so much less.

I’ve aged into a life I like,
a daily rhythm that fits
a soul like mine, that craves 
both experience and time 
to write it.

I am middle-aged, no longer
a tree climber or a speed demon,
no longer willing to play fast
and loose with your heart
or mine.  

I have learned the lessons of
my time, and I have become
less of what I wanted and 
more of what I needed, 
and I’m happy.

But sometimes in the half-light
of dusk (one can’t meditate
every moment) I think of 
days long gone, and I 
remember you.  

© 2020 Deb Moore,  All Rights Reserved

Every Now is Slippery

Every now is slippery. 

The 15-minute
rendezvous in Cincinnati,
you driving to Michigan,
us heading back south,
hugs and summaries
in a McDonald’s
parking lot,
a shared laugh
that we managed
to pull this off.

Emily rounding the bases
in Denver,
pigtails bouncing.
Vacations home
spent tagging along
on your routine
as if I really lived there
those five days.  

That visit from mom
when she redid
my entire house,
never stopping,
the way she liked it,
and then it was done,
and she left,
and 15 minutes later
I wanted to hug her
and say I love you
and maybe have
a cup of tea. 

I missed
Christmas ‘88,
but no others,
because that was
sacred –
not necessarily holy,
but sacred.
All running together
now in one big
glittery blur,
some asterisked by
an absence
or a change
or a drama. 

So many moments,
each their own
kind of tradition
in the remembering,
but also each
a separate pinpoint
on a timeline.

I want to
hold two-year-old Emily
in my arms,
her dangling feet
bouncing off my thigh,
my back strong
and able.
But she’s 34 now,
no longer the
big-eyed baby
she will always be to me
and will never be again.

I want to lasso
hold a fistful
of water,
the wind.

But time only
moves forward.
Nothing ever
comes back
around again
the same.

Every now is
held for an
instant —
No, not even held,
just slipping,
always slipping

© 2020 Deb Moore, All Rights Reserved