Will it really matter

Will it really matter

when I turn eighty

that I can’t remember seventy, fifty or twenty?

Will it really matter

when I’m old and on a walker

that I can’t remember running through mowed grass or spring heather?

Enough that I ran; enough that I stumbled

Enough that I hungered and read many books

Enough that our house held children and laughter

Enough that I lived in London, Paris and Rome.

None of that fit in my pocket or handbag

None of that lasted any longer than now

None of that occupied more than its being

None of that lived beyond a moment in time.

Now in this room

in silence and sitting

I live what is happening

right here and right now.

Old age and tears, love, sickness and boredom,

grab all my attention riveting me here.

How can I hold more than I am holding—

how can I experience more than I’m feeling right now?

Really, really, does it matter if I remember nothing at all? 

Ode to Molly

Red curly hair, legs crossed at her knees

leaning slightly forward the better to see

(and not on a chair but sitting in air)

Molly, my muse, smiles down at me.

Her fresh young face spotted with freckles

 recently displaced my old dictator

(who dressed in black and always standing)

would shout and holler “More!  More! “

But little Molly nothing demands

except that each day

for only one hour

we sit together to do what we can.

She doesn’t ask

I write with perfection,

say something new  

or have wit and wisdom.

I write away be it silly or serious

whatever comes forth from the tips of my fingers.

And, Molly, my muse, while painting her nails

looks over my shoulder slightly amused.