Swinging heavy hips
"One coin for your troubles, buttecup."
Grip it through teeth
Swallowing copper in throatfulls
To spit at that ferryman who watches
While fingers make good patchwork of this soul
Tearing 'round this needle called distract
I'm too poor to afford
The round trip back.
Isn't wisdom supposed to ripen with age? But then again, that's linear 1-2-3 logic and life really isn't like that. No, it really runs more akin to a spiral or a circle. Maybe even more chaotically and in more unfathomable paths than that. Wisdom flows easily and more generously at some points than others and does not necessarily manifest in chronological order.
How limiting of me to address something qualitative like wisdom is spatial terms.
Reading what I was inspired enough to record and save years ago, it seems blatantly clear that all these words intended for self affirmation or for others, in some cases, are wiser than all outside advice combined so far.
A snoozing Newton, I am still waiting for the fruit to fall from the tree planted so long ago. But I have hope. Outside of it all, I resort back to nudging and shaking myself into consciousness. Why does Now seem so ironically elusive? Why not halt the passive waiting for gravity/karma to do its work? Why not rub the sleep sand from my eyes to reach out and pluck the fruit before it rots?
But that's the thing - it never rots and it has always been ripe. Before you. Before me. Outside of time, in the now that has always been.