As the night tolls the end of an era
an early hour rolls over the shifting silver sky
as I with a sigh decide
to forgive all over again
the crumbs of all the birthday cakes I never tasted,
the tatters of the childhood paths
that were never there to leave behind.
There is an inanity to forgiveness,
an act that implies the faults of featureless foes,
that soothes the splinter in my solitude
as I consider in these dawn hours
the comfort of self-righteous reflections in my morning tea.
The bitterness burns my palate and I think,
“I should not have let it steep so long,”
but each night it steeps, it brews,
pouring itself a tall glass of my favorite disappointment
until I drink up all my tired regrets
and I say, “It’s down the hatch; all in the past”
even though we all know
as the night tolls the end of an era
and the early hours roll by my window
I will let the bitterness steep and brew
so that it consumes me while I pretend
it’s the other way around.
On such an auspicious morning
I’d rather find sustenance
from the sip of a water fountain
in the lobby of my mind;
never brewing, never steeping,
never still or keeping time;
it runs for miles without looking back,
a new river every moment.
For the present knows no backward notions,
no tangential tired sighs
or laconically lamenting asides.
Even as those clear, clean droplets
are obliviously pressing on
they soar with a clearer trajectory
than the circular stirrings
of the dregs of my usual morning fare.
So here and now
on such an auspicious morning
I grant my final pardon:
“To you, the maker and taster
of the sorrows that smell like orange spice,
the thief of the moment,
the cleric who always absolves
the dust of cake crumbs and tattered walkways
that don’t remember giving offense.
Today we are screwing sadness,
and starting a long love affair
with the present and precious
flow of the fountain.”