Image result for spring floods in painting

I forgot my wise saying. It slipped away.

So! I am no longer wise.

Let me write instead about this:

I was wise. Because a wise saying came to me,

Formed itself in my mind,

Clever, original, searing,

And now it’s gone.

I can’t remember the way I was wise.

Looks and youth fade, we know,

But where does experience and wisdom go?

Where does genius go to die?

A bird may break its wing, but the bird doesn’t forget how to fly.

Wisdom has one task: busily repair

What the lover tried to say.

Yet despite what wisdom says,

The one you love will go away.

Why be wise? Why do we have to say anything?

I’m a drop of water. Let’s see what the rains bring.

Do you remember what I said

When I begged you to stay but you left, instead?

If there isn’t a memory

That can bring you back to me,

I don’t want to remember.

Bury these love poems. Dead in June. Dead in December.

Can a greater deluge make me wise?

Will I know differences when the waters of spring rise?





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