Practice art, but only if you must,
wrote Rilke to the young. Could you bear
a silent life? Of all, this matters most.
Answer yes or no, neither dismissed.
You don't have to write? Some grief you'll spare
yourself. Don't change your life unless you must.
Or, don't even answer. Shelter in mist,
hesitating, holding the heavy air
around your formless heart, gathering most
comforts and distractions, till amassed
children, career, an overkill of cares.
Then practice no art, for you must
not risk regretting the writing you missed.
I hid from Rilke, but squinting in the mirror,
glimpsed myself under the splatter, most
unmodified. No longer young. Half-mast.
The present is a fulcrum. Former years,
I didn't practice art, but now I must.
Of the latter I will make the most.
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