I Do Not Exist in the Present

I lived in old summers dreaming under the falls,
wading up to my neck in the cold perpetual stream,
and placing my balance in the hands of shifting stones;
my past was measured with running rivers, weighed
by judging currents, but lost beneath a changing time.

I appear in a crowding city now changing with the fall.
I watch bundling people drink coffee and beer,
buy tickets to music and art, but I cannot remember.
I only see moving light, feel its warmth on my face;
it smells like the sun, tastes like something concrete.

I will survive new winters walking white trails
through forests blanketing life until spring;
I will find warmth in the thick swamps, the beds
of packed snow left by ghosts for cold travelers.
I will have my senses to remember stable lights
in a future changing lost truths into past stones.