CarrollBlog 1.3

Ode to the Present

by

Pablo Neruda

This

present moment,

smooth

as a wooden slab,

this

immaculate hour,

this day

pure

as a new cup

from the past--

no spider web

exists--

with our fingers,

we caress

the present;

we cut it

according to our magnitude

we guide

the unfolding of its blossoms.

It is living,

alive--

it contains

nothing

from the unrepairable past,

from the lost past,

it is our

infant,

growing at

this very moment, adorned with

sand, eating from

our hands.

Grab it.

Don't let it slip away.

Don't lose it in dreams

or words.

Clutch it.

Tie it,

and order it

to obey you.

Make it a road,

a bell,

a machine,

a kiss, a book,

a caress.

Take a saw to its delicious

wooden

perfume.

And make a chair;

braid its

back;

test it.

Or then, build

a staircase!

Yes, a

staircase.

Climb

into

the present,

step

by step,

press your feet

onto the resinous wood

of this moment,

going up,

going up,

not very high,

just so

you repair

the leaky roof.

Don't go all the way to heaven.

Reach

for apples,

not the clouds.

Let them

fluff through the sky,

skimming passage,

into the past.

You

are

your present,

your own apple.

Pick it from

your tree.

Raise it

in your hand.

It's gleaming,

rich with stars.

Claim it.

Take a luxurious bite

out of the present,

and whistle along the road

of your destiny.