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.
