The old year winds down.
Brightly, and with extra warmth,
these last few days will seem
strangely festive, not wistful.
Yet, so many seasons – gone.
So many lovers – gone.
The seasons will come back,
but not the young lover taken by cancer.
Not the old man taken by age,
or the baby taken by a stray bullet
on a noisy summer street,
asleep in her crib.
There will be more young lovers,
healthy and sick; old men dying
or aging for another year; babies
wakened by bullets piercing
the walls above them,
or stung to death
by better-aimed accidents.
Life goes on, we say,
and for some it does.
Honor the young lovers,
the old men,
the baby girls.
See them reflected
in the mirror
by your bed.