like rays of light to leafage,
drops of dew agleam on the grass,
now instead of never.
a glint of tints
renewing day by day,
and growing, growing to perfection.
It seemed that nothing
could ever interfere,
hinder or bring that bloom to a stop.
No drought, no darkness, no break in time.
Our present distilled out of dreams.
But time is a devourer of successive ticks,
sheer, indistinct, elusive nows:
days, or years, exist in our minds,
like all illusions reach an end.
Sun and rain ensued for us to enjoy,
till grayness fell.
Shadows writhed, stretched, merged.
Nothing then re-emerged.
And we realized
it had been just a fleeting glow,
we’d been allowed a simple glimpse.
And it was through.
And she, and we, and all.
Poet’s Notes: The miracle of unexpected life, then the ineffable tragedy of sudden, premature loss--too much for any poet to make a sensible poem. I tried though. The couple that suffered this loss, close friends of mine, still hasn’t recovered after quite a few years.