There’s a seasonal thing about this life we live
benchmarks that have a history,
quarterly objectives unmet and mastered.
a mile marker that you remember
in passing along the way.
good feelings ingrain themselves
at a very early age and never let go,
only, if only you enter laughing,
and somehow never let go
of the possibility, no matter
how slight the meaning,
for misery needs a definition
and wanting comes with loss.
There are blocks of life where life has left
holes in the garment I was born to wear,
years where the waves came crashing in,
and years where the sands tumbled into empty spaces.
leaving gold nuggets and empty shells,
sucked into the undertow of subliminal anxiety
and fear of knowing,
into the comfort
of silence and forgetfulness.
nothing to hide,
nothing to remember,
the broom and dustpan of our memory
sweeping anything and everything
into the holes we create in our conscience
all thoughts and actions,
from the sublime to the inhumane,
can be forgiven.