I am not possessed of possessions.
Things in transition from one state
to becoming something other than they are,
Every pot and pan, each book and tablet,
a garden and home, all transitory,
even the thread that binds a shirt,
changing. Neither a possession nor
possessed, yes used, not owned, allowed.
This mind that writes these words,
changing, what was thought possessed,
now gone, replaced, it was only loaned.
We are all the things that ever were,
what we will become is never kept,
The only real thing that can be momentarily
possessed is this moment, this second of time,
this hand tick on on the eternal clock,
things do not belong to us as we do not
belong to ourselves, and the moment,
that we did possess, is now gone forever.
I wonder have I spent its worth wisely?
©2015, Donald Harbour