Passing

I have had this happen with childhood friends.  I find myself wishing it was different.  I know we all move at different rates, different speeds.  Sometimes we stand on the bridge or dam (and wave).  Sometimes we are the ones that move on.  Sometimes it*s tough to tell anyone, even ourselves, where exactly we are anchored. This should probably not be a surprise, yet still it is. Sometimes I would like to tie tells (strips of cloth) to the backyard trees to figure out which way the wind is blowing.  This poem, I think, should have been about sailboats.  Too late now.

Sometimes it seems

More time passes

For one

Than another.

It is hard to tell

Where I am

On the time spectrum,

Whether I have gone ahead

Or been left behind.

I simply know

We no longer live

In the same zone.

Now I wonder

If we ever did.

We tell stories

About ourselves.

It seems perhaps

Too much water has gone

Under the bridge.

Someone stands

On that bridge.

Someone is in the water,

Floats with the current

Like Poohsticks.

Too much water has gone

Over the dam.

Someone is left

Standing on that dam

Waving to the one

Who has moved on.

I wonder whether the person

I remember

Has changed dramatically

Or whether it*s me

On the bridge

On the dam.

I know

It could go

Either way.