Before it’s too late I will return to the large scrape of rock showing itself on the
surface of the East Field. I will stand on its surface and look to the south and
Before it’s too late I will stare at my hands for a long while.
I will honor all the energy spent on self-teaching by trusting the stars at rest.
Before it’s too late will go along the suburban streets of my boyhood. An old
man in a car.
Before it’s too late I will make daily pilgrimage to the crest of the hill to sit under
the two black cherry trees, where desire is vanquished.
Before it’s too late I will starve each fear fed at its inception by ignorance.
Before I go, I must again visit the Minotaur where it rests in the woods. I will peer
at it through the gross barrier of vegetation.
And, as Mind dies, it will at last spy the barn owl flying overhead with two Griffins,
their silver white wings reflecting the moonlight back in the night sky.
Gregory Abels is a writer from NYC and Gardiner, NY. HIs poetry books include Never Something Else (Seven Meadows Press) and Where to Begin (Lightwood Press). He has also been a theatre director working throughout the U.S. and Europe.