Pictures on old wooden walls
Remind me of the child I used to be
And the old women inside me
And the old men whose ways
Seemed timeless and important
And the purpose of life itself.
I know them better now,
Better than I did when they stirred potatoes
And sat on porches as the sun set,
Better than I did when they summed up
Complicated moments too simply.
These broken-hearted people are near me now,
No more broken than I am, I guess,
All of us wandering these hallways
As the snow falls on the brave, bending pines.
Here I am, looking back,
And they here too, looking ahead,
Every bit as hopeful as I
And wanting the world to turn
Toward sunlight and better times
And children and pleasant summers.
I remember a night like this, years ago,
And reminding my sickly father that
All snow melts eventually and the trees
Green again when spring comes round.
Among these pictures, though, I see
Only snowfall and my own superficial
Wisdom seems cheap and too simple.
It's dark beyond these walls,
And all that we have tonight is one another.
Me and all these pictures,
Me and the broken-hearted people inside me.
Boothbay Harbor, Maine
2.18.14
