I’m trying not to think ahead too much —
indeed that habit only makes me fret.
While thoughtfulness is fine, I need to clutch
the Covid lesson, so I don’t forget
to live each day in present tense, and let
the future come but not before its time.
I’m extraditing worry, and I’ll set
this counsel in eight syllables of rhyme.


This entry was posted in Aging, Coronaverse, Health, Philosophy, Poetry and tagged , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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