Like a river over rocks, let this ode give you a rush
Of cool, crisp, refreshing relief. Too often does a man
Fight the current in hopeless pursuit of returning back
Over the falls. There is no return up the slope, as
Though ice had taken harsh claim to every rocky foothold.
Too often have I seen tragedy revisited upon those
Without the sense to let it go. Too often
Have I watched you burn your fingers on the stove,
A scorching lid no deterrent as your senseless fingers
Cling to this punishment with desperate strength.
What’s done is done – there’s no changing that.
For better or for worse we all make a way through
The brush and bramble on our path. Looking
Back over my shoulder, I see in my wake the crushed branches
And bent blades of pure green grass marking
My tread. I do not mourn, nor do I apologize,
For amongst the disturbed setting, like piercing eyes
There appear shoots of new life peeking through.
I see fresh Spring in my steps, just as you
Seem to have forgotten brooding over the lies.
Watch as the graceful blossom falls from her hand.
Watch as a cool wind takes it beyond our paltry sights.
Watch as she leaves this place behind.
Watch as I watch those best laid plans blow away
Like ashes of loss from your upturned urn.
We all try to leave a mark on the chalkboard of this
World, only to have it washed away leaving no trace
Of our passing. Any mark left on a chalkboard is of
No permanence. Digging in your nails as you are
Dragged away only leaves ugly scratches.