It’s always too late,
that passing glance,
when eyes seemed to look away,
rather than enjoy one another’s
Instead we might cry,
if having to see inside each other’s soul
would mean capturing a moment,
that disappointing announcement,
suggesting we are fallible.
I remember sitting by the red chairs,
the gas lit fire,
along the riverwalk did we stare
as winter turned to spring to fall.
If only in that spread of a moment
the essence of time and how it has a rule
always asking each of us
only move forward, never look back.
If we could decide upon one day
would we ever really design our way.
© Scott F Savage 9/2021