It will be years, even decades after; then an old grief rises to the surface. Where did it come from, you ask; why now, and to what purpose? The same is true for an old ecstasy, or memory of light on a dear face. Like a stone, it lifts from the silty bottom and asks to be held again. Where did it come from, you ask; why now, and to what purpose? Perhaps there is an archive older than memory; deeper even than the heart. Like a stone, it lifts from the silty bottom and asks to be held again. Some say what we seek arrives perfectly, at the moment of greatest need. Perhaps there is an archive older than memory; deeper even than the heart. We hope nothing's completely lost; we hope time works some change. Some say what we seek arrives perfectly, at the moment of greatest need. Desire only lasts so long. But love, like mystery, is more profound; is hard to fathom. We hope nothing's completely lost; we hope time works some change. It will be years, even decades after; then an old grief rises to the surface. Desire only lasts so long. But love, like mystery, is more profound; is hard to fathom. The same is true for an old ecstasy, or memory of light on a dear face.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
