Friday, September 13, 2013


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.

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