I am finding it difficult to remember,
Cannot place in my mind the year gone by.
Dates, minutes, days, hours,
Pitched into some dark, eternal hell –
Or else tossed to heaven without a second thought.

Were they valuable, those days?
Was there joy or despair between earth and sky?
Did we rage and war?
Was there compassion?
Did we learn to dance?

One cannot go back to check these things, of course;
There are no salvage expeditions here.
Time tugs at our sleeves
And we must obey.
We follow the rules.

Yet somewhere inside,
Finding refuge amongst the empty spaces,
Lodged between forgotten spring and lost winter,
A truth, a sure wisdom remains,
Housed in a single, perfect grain.

And, holding the grain in my hand,
It is enough.

Vicki Watson © 2013