Again, amazing. I kicked my chair back. Feet up and hands clasped behind my head. Closed my eyes and walked along your storyline. Simply satisfying! Thank you for taking us on your journeys.
lol that’s so funny. I didn’t even know that they were so into penises over there until a few days ago. A friend of mine went to Greece and she said they were everywhere. It’s wild. I feel extremely at home in Europe even though I was born and raised in America. America has never felt like home to me.
OMG, you’re speaking my language. Born in NY, would leave here in a heartbeat if I could figure it out (I’m at that weird “not quite retirement” but not a “spring chicken” with tons to offer another country) but Europe? Yes. I feel at home there also.
And the penises… They were…cool? In Pompeii, they were guiding the way to brothels. Which I thought was both funny and ingenious.
I’ve always had a pull to Paris in particular. I feel like the places we have a pull to the most in our current life must be where we lived in our last life.
April, the poem’s governing turn arrives when the gaze shifts from those behind us to those who will one day search for us. The hand on ancient stone becomes more than contact with the past; it becomes a rehearsal for stewardship, asking what evidence of care, courage, and imagination our own lives will leave beneath another person’s palm. Your repeated “someone” gathers unnamed makers, parents, wanderers, and keepers of language into a lineage where ordinary acts become civilization’s inheritance. By naming us as “the ancient ones to come,” you give mortality a future-facing responsibility and let the final touch across time feel both intimate and immense. Grateful for the way you make history breathe through hands, footsteps, fire, seed, language, and the lives still approaching us.
We are not the final page, nor merely watchers of an age" — I had to read that line twice. This whole poem just sits with you after. Really beautiful. Carried with care!
There’s something quietly moving about this idea that we’re only one small link in a much longer chain. It gives the piece a real sense of continuity, fragility, and belonging.
The moment this turned from looking backward to looking ahead was the strongest part for me. We think so often about the lives that came before us, and so rarely about becoming the “ancient ones” for someone else. That shift gave the whole poem a deeper weight.
Again, amazing. I kicked my chair back. Feet up and hands clasped behind my head. Closed my eyes and walked along your storyline. Simply satisfying! Thank you for taking us on your journeys.
Thank you!!! It’s a fun and interesting subject
This entire poem made me think of my visit to Pompeii and I am here for it.
I love old ruins. Next fall I wanna go to Rome and Athens. Pompeii would be so cool to see too
Me too! Pompeii was amazing. I felt oddly at home there. Even with all the…penis art. Rome was also amazing.
lol that’s so funny. I didn’t even know that they were so into penises over there until a few days ago. A friend of mine went to Greece and she said they were everywhere. It’s wild. I feel extremely at home in Europe even though I was born and raised in America. America has never felt like home to me.
OMG, you’re speaking my language. Born in NY, would leave here in a heartbeat if I could figure it out (I’m at that weird “not quite retirement” but not a “spring chicken” with tons to offer another country) but Europe? Yes. I feel at home there also.
And the penises… They were…cool? In Pompeii, they were guiding the way to brothels. Which I thought was both funny and ingenious.
I’ve always had a pull to Paris in particular. I feel like the places we have a pull to the most in our current life must be where we lived in our last life.
I agree! Though I have roots in the boot, Ireland beckons. I’m in love with fog.
April, the poem’s governing turn arrives when the gaze shifts from those behind us to those who will one day search for us. The hand on ancient stone becomes more than contact with the past; it becomes a rehearsal for stewardship, asking what evidence of care, courage, and imagination our own lives will leave beneath another person’s palm. Your repeated “someone” gathers unnamed makers, parents, wanderers, and keepers of language into a lineage where ordinary acts become civilization’s inheritance. By naming us as “the ancient ones to come,” you give mortality a future-facing responsibility and let the final touch across time feel both intimate and immense. Grateful for the way you make history breathe through hands, footsteps, fire, seed, language, and the lives still approaching us.
I wrote a similar one that comes out this morning. A bit longer.
I really enjoyed that poem April. It definitely makes you think what life is all about? Well done girl. 👏👏👏👏👏
You are a gift April 🙏🏻🌟
💗🥹😘
We are not the final page, nor merely watchers of an age" — I had to read that line twice. This whole poem just sits with you after. Really beautiful. Carried with care!
It’s a very deep subject. Thank you for reading it.
This is beautiful. I’m so happy to have discovered you on Substack!
Thank you so much for your kind words.
There’s something quietly moving about this idea that we’re only one small link in a much longer chain. It gives the piece a real sense of continuity, fragility, and belonging.
The moment this turned from looking backward to looking ahead was the strongest part for me. We think so often about the lives that came before us, and so rarely about becoming the “ancient ones” for someone else. That shift gave the whole poem a deeper weight.
When you know…. You write like this. Your depth is a rare find, again you understand what others can’t