A Secret Setting

Some years rain a fiery wreckage down:

artifacts of war, both real and imagined.
Scenes of violence from previous lives;
flashes of unknown, treacherous lands.
Snippets of sky and mud.

Other years are differently charged,
with their birdsong and sunshine,
lush lovers and endless light,
memories of warm meals and laughter,
of welcoming arms and sturdy chairs,
of warm towels and sandy toes.

This year there is something new: this year
contains every year that ever was or will be. Are we done
with the other kinds of years?
It’s all broad strokes now, everywhere, for everything,
one gigantic writhing mass. I suppose
time is short and the play’s the thing, or
all the world’s a stage. Maybe both.
Time is short and the players must be revealed, perhaps.

But aren’t we, all of us, all the players?
Every role, everything: isn’t it us, all the time?
And yet I no longer know if we exist beyond my imagination,
outside of my heart.

 

I am not sure it matters; neither we
nor the years have had the luxury of choice.