Tomorrow is a day
I’ve waited for with years of plenty.
Since I was closer to my birth
Than to that of ten or twenty.
I sit and ponder a maple tree,
And just beyond: the sea.
The seas and trees have been steadfast friends
As rocks moved under me.
Tomorrow is a day that changes much,
Yet changes little.
Eighteen years are now an archive,
And the rest ahead? A riddle.
I’d like to think I have a clue;
Hints in the riddle’s lines.
Little glimmers in a mound of rock,
A tiny piece that knowingly shines.
Yet the archives make the sturdy rock
So it may house such shimmers
The library is lit brightly,
The room before me: set to dimmers.
But some things, I hope,
Will never change, in another eighteen years:
When an older me will approach the door
To change the dimmer gears.
Even then, with archives anew,
And that library free to see,
Out the window,
Away from time,
And the sea,
And the maple tree.