|
| remembering carol | |
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|
| and in her twenty-second year | |
| she would conclude | |
| there was just too much | |
| sadness in her life, | |
| that things had quietly | |
| gone wrong and hopelessly | |
| so out of hand, | |
| so she'd decide to act | |
| and take control of what | |
| was left for her to take. | |
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|
|
| and I remember standing silently | |
| in numb surprise | [and who'll pick up the pieces |
| with many others in | who would try |
| assembly by the dirt | who will remember |
| that fell like tears | who'll lament |
| upon the casket drizzling rain | a fawn's cry |
| and wondering | all alone |
| should I succumb to guilt, | if no one hears her |
| or was there really nothing | did she make a sound?] |
| that a friend here could have done? | |
|
|
|
| and still I am afraid | |
| of darkness, so I'll wonder which | |
| of us is more determined or | |
| courageous than | |
| i would be in her place, | |
| or why she left | |
| us here to stare | |
| at one another and | |
| the empty branches and | |
| we here | |
| will never know… | |
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| © Jon Bohrn (1997) ("On the Water's Edge") | |
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