Not the rented rooms
where I live my present life,
not even the rented breaths,
never knowing when the last one will come,
not the four chicks sent out into the world,
their inner clocks set to Forward,
no looking back to see me
waving on the shore
not the dogs I loved and lost,
their smiles and hearts and devotion
missed every day of my life since
not even these words,
coming from I know not where.
I set them down on the page,
to capture them,
but pages can be burnt,
or lost, or discarded
by those who come after me.
What is ours? In the end,
only the love we have given
and shared, the memories
we have made, the stories
others will tell about us
after we are gone.
Wild Writing with Laurie Wagner, from a poem by Marie Howe
You've nailed it, Sherry. Only the love we have given, in the end, is important. So much in the end just passes.....
ReplyDeleteand this is why i love your words
ReplyDeleteIndeed. My son has my books but isn't a poetry person and says he doesn't understand it. He is proud of me for writing them, though. It has been a source of pain that none of my family have the slightest interest or regard for what I do. But dogs, they are the best, aren't they? Yay dogs!!!!
ReplyDeleteWhat matters in the end is the "love".
ReplyDeletewise, Sherry ~
ReplyDelete