If

If I do not write another word,
I will wonder,
At the end of it all,
If any of it had any meaning
Beyond the space of self.

If I return,
To abide in the fear of consequence,
And to live out my days
Sipping coconut and rum on the beaches of Tahiti tipping twenty-dollar bills,
I would feel better, I think, to be not to be.

If I proclaim what I have experienced,
Neither in judgment nor in promotion,
But in testament to you, young reader, who reads these words in 2096,
I hope you will think of me fondly,
And with gratitude.

If you hear these crickets that I hear right now,
As I sit on my deck under the crescent moon
That hangs stilly over Venus
At 7:32 PM, Central Daylight Saving Time,
That you will be able to see, too, no doubt, virtually.

Come to this place.
See what I see.
On a clear night in October,
In Southern Illinois,
Among the cornfields where the combines hum.