Future Poem by Maxine Chernoff

Old snow falls in this poem about the past,
our secret lives remembered
as funerals are remembered
by those who never attend
but imagine the slender coffin,
the sheen of its bright handles.
There, on the dark lawn,
you meet your former self asking
a lover to step aside as memory
impinges on an invitation
to dance. The next scene
comes unbidden as an outbreak
of disease: There he stands with his eyes
mercurial, there she weeps at her rendition
of their sorrow. Snow falls on them both,
laden with reasons and candles,
and in the corner a table is set where your
former self shares its dinner
with the one you have become.
The radiant fruit you taste has gotten
overripe, waiting for its season.