The moon goes from
new to full
twelve months is all
it takes to cycle through the year
So many songs mark those times
like the year I met you
Bob Dylan sang, “The times they are a'changin.”
Change being the one constant
Babies to old age,
first bloom, to seed then dried
Love’s first kiss and final goodbyes
Egg, larva, pupa, butterfly
Picture by Bill
Love Letters
We wrote while you were away
daily letters I tied in pink ribbon
should have saved those love notes
but I threw them away
because I found my mother going through them
No record of our early romance
our words of innocence
and hopeful yearnings
no history for our grandchildren
how will they ever learn our story?
Our messages today sent through e-mail
deleted weekly at best
hardly worth savoring
“Stop at the store, see you at 6:00.”
I wonder if there’s a way to go back in
time to do it differently?
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