The first time your first child failed
his face filled a room, then a day,
with the gloom of a star gone out
Nothing in the world, not one thing
in all the worlds that sing, would be worthy of
the innocence that leaked out
No word written in all of fact or fiction
is bold enough to hold the pain of the act
that took away the gleam in the child's eyes
It would return of course, the gleam,
and in returning, return the child; still,
failing a thing sought, records a loss
Real loss dwells not on the face or in the eye
but deeper still in the brain and dwelling there
dwells lodged in the middle of things past
Things thus wedged can plague the fresh day
of anyone who yearns to be free of the known,
so the wisest among us learn, then move on
If you must look back, avoid the lingering gaze
