By the roadside, miniature volcanoes
Erupting
Grain of sand by grain of sand
Tumbling
Down the slopes
Forming
Fuji-esque cones
In the tiny calderas
A hole
At the bottom
Leading to where the ants live
Cool
Sheltered
Sizzling hot asphalt a foot away
When dusk arrives
A refreshing coolness
Covers the road surface
Creatures great and small begin the perilous journey
From ditch to ditch
Hoping against hope
An occasional car whizzes by
©2017 Thomas W. Cummins
Is it just sitting there waiting?
The future, that is.
Or is it there at all?
Yet, whatever it is, it looms
Often dreaded,
Occasionally filled with hope.
Our present steps into that future.
Or, perhaps, the future comes toward us
As our past is pulled away.
Pulled away with its regrets and joys.
Pulled away with its dreams
Fulfilled or deferred.
Aren’t we left, really, with only today?
Today, the present, belongs to both
Past and future.
Who I am is a remnant of my own past.
My present is experienced by no other
My future waits for me alone.
©2017 Thomas W. Cummins
In a dim light... 