The children, grandchildren, 
do they succeed us or precede, 
a fait accompli? 

I can’t tell
any longer,
Time so topsy-turvy,

Upside down, 
the road so curvy,

I take it straight to the end. 

No guardrails there
at the switchback,
I step into the sheer drop,

On nought but air,
to flutter. 

Perchance to fly. 

A chance meet missed 
and they all disappear. 

Unappealingly 
un-appear. 

Such is fate. 
Faith in what is meant to be. 

We reap what we imagine
We sow. 

We think and act
from the plentiful field,
already amid the sights, 
the aromas of the harvest. 

Fulfilled. 

Not 
from now,
expectant of future bounty. 

Wanting and unfulfilled. 

In this life,
there are many mansions. 

Haven’t I told you so?

cc: Chagall, 2026