Moving On

There is no test to time for time itself is of rest, or work,
of giving, living, loving, hating, lying, cheating, repeating
itself over and over, just as the soft clover rises in the Spring.

I have nothing left to give you that you would not receive before
the pebbles that shake themselves about your thoughts
inside a wracked brain of things you yourself bought into 
like the way he told you he loved you, then quickly looked away.

You have always been a fence to me. 
Much too guarded for my liking.
I prefer the way the hawk sails thermals with great trust 
in the ancient practice of rising as the wind allows
then resting high above, perched in safety
until he's certain it's time for flight again.

ajs

 

This poem is about: 
Our world

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