by Richard Vince
It was like threading a needle:
We picked our moment perfectly
Between all that filled
Our lives before and after.
After a summer of disappointments,
Our misplaced optimism was
Somehow enjoyable; perhaps we knew
How futile it all was, and so
We accepted what we had
And learned to make the best of it.
My only memories of us are
Fond ones, as unlikely as that sounds,
So distant friendship was a state
To which we could actually return,
Untarnished by latent desires
Or unresolved bitterness.
Perhaps this is why these words
Have been such a long time coming:
There were no loose ends to tie up,
No concealed anger to release,
No pieces of grit around which to
Form pearls of dubious wisdom.
When I look back to those balmy days,
I can smile safely and wholly,
Knowing that we had our season,
And that my memories of that time
Have nothing to dull them.
Posted on 02/03/2019
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