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.