The years continue, each one the same and different,
spring to summer, summer to fall, fall to winter
and we are swept along, pausing now to admire
a startle of aspens, yellow torches burning
against the pines.Then the season's first snowflakes
drift toward us, melt away. It's a day of white sky
and our shadows have vanished. We're shocked
whenever the winds of calamity knock us, again,
to our knees. We get up and—what choice is there—
go on. Robins return, formal in their red vests.
A child whizzes by on a bike and we remember
being that very child. Not that it was always easy,
even back then. We suffered bee stings. We watched
our parents fail at being perfect. Someone loved us
and someone stopped loving us. The years
continue and turn us into different versions
of ourselves. Just before twilight we look at the sky,
awash in color, clouds catching the late sun.
And then the evening's first star. Days and years
pass through us, or we pass through them.
The days continue, as they will, with us
or without us. Each one the same and different.
We hold on. Something in us doesn't want to disappear.


© by Ginny Lowe Connors.
Used here with the author's permission.