Servants of History
We are both remnant &
spawn of another season
evidence littering the house in
ghosts of the past — photographs
dried flowers, the careful way
a napkin is folded, a glass put away.
How we do this or that
pulls on invisible threads
even cold stone hearts, then
the warmth of a solitary blaze.
The mystery can hit you hard
in a moment of stopping or new
trauma that resurrects the past.
We owe so much but cannot see
or simply forget, recall only hardship
sorrow & bitter stings when all is upheld
by great clouds of unknowing
quietly taking on our debt.
Copyright Simon Heathcote