A moment

Go back and listen
to what escaped your notice
in the rush of life.
Find your hindsight
and, with the paintbrush of time,
paint your guilt or irrelevance
in the colors of a backward mind.

Rewrite yesterday
in the dead language of hypotheticals,
and let your weeping nourish the roots
you would plant there;
even while the sun runs across the sky.

Her first and last breath
are nothing but echoes of whispers -
fallen flowers under the stampede of the present
pushing forward,
leaving in its wake
the sights sounds and smells
of silk cocoons
to be enjoyed by those left behind.

For the record
stars long gone
can still be seen
from far, far away.

©02.11.2017 ebn