our breath in first-month’s morning air, bubbles in the sand,
the pain of childbirth, fevers, fun, the croup, the pox—
except some things do like old age spots and wrinkles,
first loves, the ocean, and generosity. Like the sun, moon
and truth, Mona Lisa’s smile, and God’s words burned
upon the prophet’s heart. But most things come and go—
Polaroids, eight tracks, jonquils, Tab, and youth, Woodstock,
plaid leisure suits, and the rainbow after rain.
Empires don’t last nor do the bees’ stings nor nightmares
draining out of rocks; neither hangovers, scabs on elbows,
bills and echoes and promises to pray. But the twelfth of never
is aye and always, the wind and pine’s song guaranteed.
The Grecian urn scenes don’t change, do they? And kindness
remains ever the balm in Gilead.
Published: Verse Virtual, 2024