Me of Ago

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 Me of Ago


I sit across the stream from Me of Ago,
journal open, pen in hand, senses too.
Me of Ago instead runs to and fro.
It’s here I seem to have nothing to do.

Here, gurgles water—croaks frog, sing, bird, sing.
Noon sun shines hot on my white paper now.
Rock watch in ancient, smooth rows, or in rings.
The oaks sprawl below their dry, dusty brow.

I’m not she. The Me of Ago long left.
It’s true! I am someone else, do not balk.
Airplane sound holds both, overhead, adept
Across the stream strollers stroll.  Women walk.

I miss my children, my old life so neat.
I miss this too on that side of the street.

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