by Gideon Burton
In time the seasons seasoned, thick enough
for sediments of sentiment to swell
and harden, thickened with a mud as tough
as easy distance made them in the spell
of unforgotten and avoided faith.
Who knows what healing, what relief or grace
might well have settled, quiet in a place
reserved for friendship thorough in its trace
of due alliance, cobbled in the past
and worn to supple leather in the task
beyond this mere suggestion, slowly fast.
It isn’t wise to question, nor to ask.
The yestertime evaporates away;
say anything, the edges start to fray.
Feel free to copy, imitate, remix, or redistribute this poem as long as you give proper acknowledgment of authorship. Photo: flickr - sparktography