It’s late

It’s too late, she says

Staring out to the sea

Wind swirling around

Causing goosebumps on her bare her arms

Which she hugs inward toward her body

Her white linen dress blowing against her bare legs


No, it’s not too late the next one replies

A cigarette hanging from her mouth

A martini in her hand

She sits at the beachside bar or by the pool or at the concert

Not a care in the world

No real sense of time


Hmm, it might be too late

Answers the anxious pajama clad girl

Chewing on her nails

Tears sliding down from her big eyes

Leaving trails across her small face

As she buries herself deeply into the pillows


I am ambivalent about the late hour

Writes the writer

With her pen in hand and a large yellow pad before her

Dark clothing and a jaunty beret

A smirk on her face she sips her latte or her tea or her soda water


It’s never too late

Whispers the motherly figure, so soft and warm

With strong arms for hugging

Cookies for baking

And a heart as large as can be

She smiles sweetly at all around her


It’s neither too late nor too early

It is right now

Thinks the observer

Sitting cross legged on the mat

Eyes shut

Letting the thoughts go and go and go

Breathing the moment in and out

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