We took an oath to never
borrow from tomorrow,
to search out harrowing experiences
and to suck the marrow from life.
Now, they seem hollow vows,
transparent illusions of youth,
aspirations worn thin
by the march of time.
Rare is the child who can guess
the realities of maturity, either
grand or humble. more rare still,
the adult who does not mourn
broken oaths and wasted days.
I saw the procession, a slow train
ending beside upturned earth,
finally accepting the one unfailing
promise. The grubs will always be fed.
Ah, rainy days and poetry,
always a cheerful combination.
For the Sunday Whirl.