A Difficult Vehicle


Not that love can be lost that troubles -
      it lies fallow merely -
or that it can unhindered pass,
      grow shallow merely,
perhaps to seep, slow to a trickle,
      or terminate,
staining a cheek at best, at worst
      trying to aggravate
the inevitable pain of a season's turn -
      that troubles, too...

nor that such love cannot be deterred -
      or even tamed -
then like the years turns, too, full circle
      and has claimed
time enough that tribute of omniscient youth
      grown unwise
with age and deals alike, left then alone
       to devise
vain ways of coping with scenes still felt -
      that troubles, too.

© R.G. Bishop