How many renaissances . . .

How many times

Will the silence invite me

To the feast?

I toast to festivals of years. . .

Here's to the painful isolation,

Here's to the innocence

Now lost. . .

Here's to the quiet wonder

Here's to the mystery of awe

To chaos on the edge of order . . .

Too soon

The days of opportunity dissolve,

The inward possibilities remain inert,

And all that might be and might have been

Is gone.