Better late

I reached my

seventies, it

seemed, in a rush.

Suddenly I was

wandering in

a forest of years:

71, 77, 73, 78,

74, and look,

over there, at

the edge of the

forest, is 79.

And I think,

“I won’t be in

this forest very

long, for I am

running through

it. I should make

up my mind soon

what I am going

to do with my

life.”

Tell, a story

In the ancient

city mounds of

the Middle East,

flat layers of mud,

one on top of

the other, are the

squashed remains

of houses and streets,

flat like pages in

a history book,

the lives of people

in each generation,

reduced to a few

inches of mud

baked in a thousand

years of Sun days.

In my memory

houses I have

lived in, one after

the other, from child

to old man,

are also flat pages;

all those years of

rich living, of friends

and family, of sadness

and joy, in sickness

and in health, all

compressed into

a few ghostly

thin memories,

dried by the heat

of life as lived.