Friday, September 28, 2007


Left behind
are the ruins of the days,
the whirrs and clicks and shouts,
the growling anger, the torrents.

Can mistakes
ever become pinpoints,
memories small enough
to eventually vanish
in the lengthening sprouts
of a tiny seed,

a mustard seed, a hope
too present to ignore.
Can the circle lead us back
to a beginning?

Shoving doors into new rooms,
the rubble of walls at our feet.
I erase my journals
for the comfort I once sought.
Years won't count
except the ones to be.

for Kate

1 comment:

Kate said...

I have the best Mom ever.