Now

When we look back

And remember beauty

Then we cannot but be made

Grateful

For in the afterdwelling timeless gaze

There is a mist that causes

Heartache, and those aches

Are the wish that all could have been

As it once was.

A melancholy nostalgia

Whose forbearance with us

Is always too great

For while we walk shapeless

And faceless in the morning of our

Childhoods

So as the sunset nears we turn backwards

To remember mornings that seem

Bedecked in a purity finer

For its passing.

We were bored things then,

Bored of being in the world

Bored with the simple beauties surmounting the crested dewy lightness of our homes and streets

But then so are all children,

Such is the nature of being nameless and shapeless

Such is the nature of being

New.

Close the doors on that sadness then

Draw back from the curtains that you would twitch aside

Do not look:

Because the eyes of memory

See what they will.

Turn your face to the now sun

Or the now rain

And be glad that now

Is yet yours to possess in its fickle frailty.

The past will keep

For yet another day.

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~ by Rebecca Erickson on June 14, 2015.

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