The present is a present--all we’ve got,
for all we’ve opened, and will ever hope;
the lifeline thrown our drifting raft or yacht,
to surge the doldrums--focus on its scope.

We tend to look behind and live ahead:
the past, the pains, the lustrous peerless kiss;
the not-yet-mets the ones to which we’re wed.
The pungent now the senses mostly miss.

With guilt and worry springboards into now,
regret, nostalgia, rumbas down the deck.
And though the sun sets sweeter off the bow,
where seas are calm, we tred and tred their wreck.

The presents come, and come, one at-a-time,
as they're meant to be undone. Take the time! 

© Helga Ross 2007 (2019)