When I have the time to sit,
And watch a sunbeam hit the steam
That dances upward from my cup
Like incense in this morning’s liturgy,
I think of my roads, paths, plans,
Achievements I’ve yet to achieve,
Left legacies yet to leave,
And I am disappointed
That I cannot seem to simply be
Instead focused on what I will be,

Under fluorescent halos in sanctuary basements,
Faces framed by incense steam of swill coffee,
Drunks proclaim truth: wherever you go there you are.
You will always be you, no matter your far-off wishing star.

I am still stuck in Garden-grown grief,
Longing for a life I can never know,
A future (like the past) I’ll never meet.
I long to be a me that will never be,
Holding out for the time when everything
Rhymes or fits or works and the distance
Between now and finally when is reduced to nothing.

When I have the time to sit,
I can rest and watch the steam rise
Instead of scheming or fighting to surmise
A purpose or a plan to become some other man,
Other than this one that sits and sees.