She speaks to me in lofty phrases
From some height that time
And circumstance have helped her climb

If this is what they meant by being adult;
By holding all one’s cards closer
To one’s chest; then I reject the
Concept of growing up and growing wise

I wonder if a spark remains of
The fires which once burned so brightly
In her breast. Her words she puts on scales
Now, and measures sentences in ways
My mother’s butcher used to do
With chopped chuck

And she would tell you, if you ask,
That she has the right to have
Extinguished the brasher fires
Which made her so beautiful in youth.
And I would agree, being a man of
Memory, while missing the woman
Who was once the girl.

I have been spared her tragedies,
Which in one great sense has made me
Paradoxically more understanding
Of the life they robbed in her.

But still, seeing what she is
And knowing what she was
I mourn the loss of her in
Quieter warrens.

She maintains a stoic dignity now, and she
Can still laugh at silliness, but there
Is in her eyes a flash that warns you
Off taking frivolity but so far.

And knowing that, I temper myself
Putting my own words on the butcher’s block
And making sure, when I speak to her,
They never weigh more than a pound.

02/22/2012

Posted on 02/22/2012
Copyright © 2025 Ken Harnisch