At thirty-five
At thirty-five
At midpoint in life
perhaps
I wonder whether this sense
of nothing accomplished
nothing ensured,
this craving and chasing
and yearning to capture and own and possess
will collapse later on
with a deep breathing out
to know that I worried
in vain.
At midpoint in life
perhaps
I wonder whether I could recalibrate,
forgive the bungles and false starts
and non-starts and failures,
opportunities wasted
roads not taken,
and marvel, as my children do,
at the crunch of snow.
______
And now I ask, 40 years on,
who was that woman at the peak of her strength,
how do I reach her, contain her, relate:
it works out ok through affection, commitment,
with humble contentment
less striving, more being,
as Raymond Carver sums it up:
to ‘feel myself
beloved’ counts most in the end.