Story of My Life<\/p>\n
Each day goes down in history, wets its feet,
\nbathes in clear or murky stream, drinks deep,
\ncomes out to join past days on the other bank.<\/p>\n
We go in with the bathing day, every morning,
\nbrace the shiver on our skin, taste the slaking
\nof thirst, find footing on mossy rock. Climb out<\/p>\n
with sleep, Waking, we\u00c3\u00adre back on the first bank,
\nwading with a new day into the kaleidoscopic
\nwater. Days far from either bank are barely seen<\/p>\n
and seem unseeing. There is no recording of them
\nthat knows the cold and quenching of their moment
\nin the water. Yet I can not let them go, nor bear<\/p>\n
the strong suggestion formed by their fading figures
\nthat they have let us go and that those coming can not
\nbe foretold anything actual of water, flesh, or stone.<\/p>\n
Publisher holds out a large envelope, says, Sorry,
\nWe can\u00c3\u00adt publish your autobiography.<\/i>
\nMan sighs, says, Story of my life. <\/i><\/p>\n
All these words then, are only for the stream?
\nThe stream is everything? The stream is not enough?
\nThe specters on the banks are deaf but listening?<\/p>\n
Jennifer Michael Hecht<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
Story of My Life Each day goes down in history, wets its feet, bathes in clear or murky stream, drinks deep, comes out to join past days on the other bank. We go in with the bathing day, every morning, … Continue reading