Let me not forget to remember
how quick things pass—
how many years will take flight
and fade the colors of my mind;
are tears really so helpful?
Hope is stone not scarred by wind—
strong and gentle, like the Manistee
flowing through winding bends,
more certain than steep banks.
What has come was taken,
couldn’t sink in one’s soul
is like lost keys by holes in pockets
and painful to forget. Yet what’s worse
is that children are selfish,
always concerned for today
asking questions of what can wait;
for that I will mourn
for I will never have known you.
Though I can’t see you—
across waterlogged branches
around the current’s bend—
I reach for stone which won’t erode
searching for your faded mind
I hope to reclaim what fell, and hope
that you are restored.