Half

Because I can not say the words
that you most need to hear,
or form the words you most want me to say,
or perhaps because I finally can imagine
how you felt the day I walked away,
the day this fairy-tale began
from, “Once Upon a Time,” until “The End,”
from “Happily Ever After,” to “I hope we can stay friends.”

Should I pretend to understand
the pressures and the fears
of little girls that grow up fast
with one eye always looking in the mirror,
with one hand always fussing with the skirt
between revealing and exposed,
between hopefulness and hurt.

And can I say we always seemed
to be more work than pleasure,
that I never meant to learn the math
that let you measure in forevers,
or be the man and a half it took
to carry the better half of us around.
In all of this, I was set up
to let you down.

But we can try to get ahead
of what was said and what was left forsaken.
Try to sort out all you felt like you were giving
from what I thought that I was taking,
and whittle it all down to a single reason,
maybe something more profound than
“Our love had its season.”

Our love had its time,
the time we walked together side by side,
but like every living thing upon the Earth,
love flourished for a while, and then it died,
and though you thought it worth another try,
I was young, the world was big
and time was ticking by.

There’s been a long time since
for mending broken hearts and dreams,
and maybe what you said back then was right,
perhaps I am exactly what I seem,
but still I hoped these words might be of use,
so here it is, a bit too late,
my half apology, and half excuse.

The Morrow

Ten thousand destinations  and a hundred seas to sail,  but every seaman’s story  is a cautionary tale,  so keep an eye on the horizon,  a hand upon the rail,  and pray the stars will  guide us till the morrow.  Ten thousand destinations -  so far we've called at three,  and the standing order is  triangulate repeatedly,  but a port is still a port,  and between their swirls a sea,  so I pray the night will  finally find the morrow.  Ten thousand destinations,  a hundred thousand storms,  then a day or two bad weather  while the wind and waves reform  before they rush from every angle  in an angry, howling, swarm,  through which I pray and pray to  somehow see the morrow.  Ten thousand destinations,  though some say even more,  but I've seen enough to verify  the ancient seaman’s lore:  The sun may rise and set  for those that stay upon the shore,  but at sea it is the prayers  that bring the morrow.

Sage

Let this be dementia.  Let it be thin blood ribboning  through frail and outworn veins.  Let it be imbalance, an  overflow set seeping through  life's lusterless remains,  where the drag of age outweighs the days  and loss undoes the gains.  Or let it be madness.  Have it marked and measured,  mathematized, and meticulously gauged,  for memory's maze cannot  assuage the rigorous regret  that sets the final stage,  and leaves us with a shawl, a sham,  and the long awaited wisdom of old age.