Ode to the Present

by Pablo NerudaThispresent moment,smoothas a wooden slab,thisimmaculate hour,this daypureas a new cupfrom the past--no spider webexists--with our fingers,we caressthe present;we cut itaccording to our magnitudewe guidethe unfolding of its blossoms.It is living,alive--it containsnothingfrom the unrepairable past,from the lost past,it is ourinfant,growing atthis very moment, adorned withsand, eating fromour hands.Grab it.Don't let it slip away.Don't lose it in dreamsor words.Clutch it.Tie it,and order itto obey you.Make it a road,a bell,a machine,a kiss, a book,a caress.Take a saw to its deliciouswoodenperfume.And make a chair;braid itsback;test it.Or then, builda staircase!Yes, astaircase.Climbintothe present,stepby step,press your feetonto the resinous woodof this moment,going up,going up,not very high,just soyou repairthe leaky roof.Don't go all the way to heaven.Reachfor apples,not the clouds.Let themfluff through the sky,skimming passage,into the past.Youareyour present,your own apple.Pick it fromyour tree.Raise itin your hand.It's gleaming,rich with stars.Claim it.Take a luxurious biteout of the present,and whistle along the roadof your destiny.