I take the thistle from dog's paw
and walk the gravel path,
passed the dried belief of limp
that was the past.
The wind muscled through
and took a limb from tree,
now it rests on the path like sculpted tomb,
a dwelling space for a seed some bird forgot
in favor of a worm.
What if I were to imagine she was skipping
on the mountain of her grave
and gave this thought to me in note of breeze,
to say, let go of the past that too long believed
that time was actually something that she woke to?
Steady sure time takes the leaf from hold
that seemed so sturdy true, when first it knew
how spring greenly gave itself the lie
and forgot that all must die.
I've plunged the knife into the wounded bark
that gave my years the memory, so often,
that art lost its form and words their diction.
Now I see around me truth, not fiction.
Backwards is no longer true
and even now the sky behind the clouds, is blue;
for across the water rocked with dimpled rain,
regret has drained.