I have now lived nearly seven years alone–

except for two covid years my youngest

son lived with me– in that milk and honey

time of near solitude this home on this hill

provided.  A safe haven of fishing and hunting

seasons, trips to town buying what was needed,

no shopping.  I’ve had time to consider this 

choice of place that seemed provided by signs

and wonders, of time putting circumstances

in place, of me deciding. A cringe of second-guessing 

has arisen. I don’t know why but what I know 

is I can’t deny the shadow cast by it.  Not great

but enough for me to recognize.

I’ve never trusted second-guessing, that knowing

after the fact what could not be known before 

some now becomes some then.  The restlessness

of age has entered me.  That longing for more, 

knowing there’s only less to take in.  That sense

of not wanting to miss what’s given.  I don’t want

my death poem to be, I wished for a fuller life lived.

These years of near solitude have taught me

a thing or two.   Forgive my doubts; I bow to where I am.

Hootism:  Each life has a rhythm.  Find yours and start dancing.