What’s left of our old loves? asks an old song,
With melody nostalgic and morose.
But what is wrong? Are we so comatose
Already, that we cannot move along?
Those were the days, but these are shiny, new
And better days, appreciated more.
We’ve known both high and low, either and or,
And made our choices. What else could we do?
The past is rose-soft: we discard its thorns.
The present still has sticky, pricky points
That penetrate our inmost moods and joints.
But slowly, row by row, we mow our lawns.
Each living moment offers chance of bliss.
Who cares about that twenty-year-old kiss?
Fri 6 Oct 2006
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