Waking up one morning with the sun shining
directly into my slitted eyes, I was suddenly struck by the realization
that I'm no longer a boy. This wasn't
a strike on the back with a hammer, an icepick
to the bottom of my spine, but more
of a creeping awareness, that must have come
in the middle of a bad dream
about running free along the shore
and being trampled by horses
before reaching fully dry land. I always wanted
to grow old, but somehow I never thought
it would happen the way a tree grows,
never realizing how badly
it's come to rely upon the sun. I always wanted
a stone house on the shore, a balustrade
to photograph the horizon. Someday,
a lover who I can avoid marrying,
a child whose birthdays I forget,
a car to drive down empty streets
all the way to the end of the landscape,
and an entire grove of peach trees, which
would shed one peach for each person
I had lost, over the years, roaming free
along the banks of every river
with no headwaters, apparently
not remembering to tattoo myself
with directions back upwind,
where even the mountains must go unnamed.
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