The children stand in the door. Their shadows reach inward
Across the floor. The sun glimmers
In the thick needles of the pines.
As if hearing some call, they will depart,
Their gesture not one of greeting but farewell.
It will not be possible to meet again as we are.
You turn away your looking.
They, as we, are borne through the years like something
Floating downriver and into the rapids.
We know about death. We approach it also.
(Your painting of grey seas, or a painting of graves.)
Time does not pass. It lasts.
And the intensity of the heart.
Because we lose hold.
The wheel turns and we are unable to hold on.
We cannot meet again as we are.