The Future Arrives like Snowfall on the Porch
Not wanting poetry in the hospital.
Not wanting poetry last night.
Not wanting poetry for the past year.
Not wanting poetry as I walk the snow-filled streets;
Just that island path on Koh Phangan, the air
dense with the sweat of orchids and lemongrass,
eyes that appear suddenly among the leaves
like two dark globes of moon-ripened fruit,
a water buffalo calf nuzzling up to us
from out of the close, dark night
and that decrepit old house with the giant front porch
where we lived together and it was always summer.
Tim Hawkins has lived and traveled widely throughout North America, Southeast Asia and Latin America, where he has worked as a journalist, technical writer, communications manager, and teacher in international schools. He currently lives in his hometown of Grand Rapids, Michigan. His writing has appeared most recently in The Flea, Lucid Rhythms, The Pedestal Magazine, Shot Glass Journal and Underground Voices, and is forthcoming in Blueline, Iron Horse Literary Review, The Midwest Quarterly, 13 Miles from Cleveland and Verse Wisconsin.