Old Wounds

OLD WOUNDS

Old scars if rubbed

Will scab and bleed;

Old aches return

With pressure.

A wounded heart

Of anger freed

Heals and breaks

In equal measure

Memorial Day

Feeling somewhat righteous
On my knees, suddenly, it came to me --
Who will clean my grave
When I am gone
Beneath the dusty stone?
Who will find the time?
I know: none. Not one.
For all my young, it's not in you
To brood on what is gone.
Don't get me wrong.
You remember, you do,
Then let it pass on by.
My mountain grave --
Grow high with rose (with hope)
To overtake the rue.