All Things End

All things end. It's often these times of change and grief that yield poetry for me.


Requiem

Ours was a time of lollipops and kisses:

We hid beneath blankets and rainbows,

and traced growing hand and footprints.

We explored the rocky river beach

and danced on Sunday mornings

to the crackle of bacon and scent of cinnamon.

This room no longer knows our names:

It clinks in its barren chinks

and sighs a hollow who at my footfall.

There are ghosts in the windows

that startle me when I pass.

Blemishes I had concealed now glare.

Pebbles dropped from bridges

leave little mark upon the water

and are carried away by the current.

Leaden rocks leave enduring ripples,

but sink and are consumed by the river bed,

buried by the refuse of time.