Creation’s Urn

Worlds become
Whether by the oregano and garlic aroma
Or
The eagle’s screech on high
Like a distant parental swell

At a daughter’s little league score
Or
A boy’s first job
The brown bags with milk bottle on the bottom
Wonder Bread on top
A cheery “Have a nice day, Mrs. Gilbert”
Or
Discovered independence brought forward
By Tropic of Cancer’s ink and paper visions
Or
An off-base Tijuana week-end pass
Uniform pressed
Marksman medal polished
Old Spice weather pattern alight
Reality’s first XXX presentation
Painted eyes eliciting compassion
Where Penthouse and Playboy pages once ruled

To remember the boy of curiosity
Now a man of resolve
Conjures classic images
Housed now behind
Surreal windows
Doors
Foreshadowed urn of origins

Questioning of another kind
Makes buoyant the cushion of consciousness
Defying impending gravity
Asking again of the heart ever faithful
“Will I be ready to accept
Time’s next momentary direction for me?”

Might there be an infinite urn of ends

Preparing unknown beginnings?