I could live, myself alone,
With the memories rattling around
In my head
Like sharp-colored marbles
In a colander
Spilling over to batter and bounce
In the bright stainless steel sink
For me alone, the memories
Have texture and form and scent
Color, resonance.
I cannot draw them up
For anyone else.
There are too many, too sad.
I embarrass myself even
As a few scroll by
Replete with unrequited love
Lost ambition, jaded hope.
In this promise though
Of the last third of my life
Three score and ten as the psalmist noted
I am reminded of two things
That cannot be undone save by God alone
That, one, I am loved by her
With eyes so bright that each glance
Makes me yearn toward spring
And new things and warmth and soft air
Stirring in the towering maple.
And, two, that I am bound to cross
That silver river one day
Where, on the far shore, dim now,
my Savior waits for me
Whose visage I cannot imagine
With this mortal flesh,
And crowded all around Him,
The saints in numbers unimaginable
Where there is respite
From that sadness of remembrance
Forever.
The days of our years
are threescore years and ten;
and if by reason of strength
they be fourscore years,
yet is their strength labor and sorrow;
for it is soon cut off, and we fly away.
