Wednesday, August 4, 2021

First of Four

Regrets still throb
     Like hot summer veins,
And everything dropped
     That turned mistake
Keeps dropping from
     My white-gloved hand
In slower and sadder motions,
     Like sand 
Sifted to view 
     Each granule.

But there was a reason
     These mistakes 
Were made. There was grace
     In the way
Love's promises each day
     Were fulfilled,
In effortless flow 
     With all that is
And endlessly turns 
      To love.

Perhaps the crinkle of
     A smile, who knows?
Wide eyes, a thickness
     Of hair ...
So little remains it's like it
     Never occurred,
That I wandered a field
     Of youth's infinite possibilities
Alone, without the one
     I had disappeared within.