carpe diem

I leave it to the sky I might
Sit down and pen the best
I’ve ever written:
‘Bout when I was right
For once,
Or smitten,
Or heart-bitten hard,
Or when I too-awkwardly
Starred the dunce
In my own quick-handed tragedy,
Or was self-stupidly—
Perhaps supernaturally—
Barred from a tawny redemption
Somehow.
None of which would change
Or cinder-chase away that
Now
Is the fawny exemption,
And, though spotted, ever-new;
Not an o’er-the-shoulder
Capitulation to grey,
But strangest coloration—
And a brave beautification—
On what I’ve left to do.