Half a Lifetime

Half a Lifetime

We climb through the torn 

leaves toward the ridge,

whose black branches inch

into clarity.  The cabin waits,

cups and candles in accustomed

grace; on the porch simple 

sitting places. A crisp rustle 

drifts down the wind. 

And once a boy in ninth grade 

had his eye on you, a friend 

told you, and when the bell 

ended he was standing 

in a shaft of sunlight 

half a lifetime from here. 

 By Ralph Elder