The questions do not ask us,
“Are you ready now?”
They come, as sudden as
a whip, or with
a few soft footfalls,
some not shy, but anyway,
the shy ones
are the worst.
Their quiet whispers
at awareness’ edge,
like gentle rustling branches,
imperceptibly grow
daily a trifle louder,
until one day a roar
that can no longer
be ignored.
Oh, arc of time,
arc of ripening,
of destiny
and shifting shape—
soft lull of whisper
now become
demand in the sand.
Oh, divided self,
o fear of risk,
o foot that steps
forward and then
hesitates—
The questions do not wait
or even ask for reasons.
They do not
take excuses.
They are the jury
and the Judge,
And then they grow
into an angry lion
to execute the sentence,
shaking excuses
in their bloody teeth.
