Lamentable

The un-lamentable;
That which I gave up the right to grieve -
Gives much thought for measure.

The taste is sweet,
Like the last drop of a seasons honey,
From a bee that could do naught but make.

The look is cold,
Like the icy crystals that smile down my window
Before the thaw of spring.

The sound is acute,
Like the morning song of a bird
Breaking the silent air of decision.

The smell is violet,
Like the petal felled to the earth,
By the breeze that carries me the scent.

The look is elsewhere,
So I can’t see if these same senses
Have visited you as well.


PrioriThought 2009