Spring Healed Jim

Is love an act of endless forgiveness?

Endless something--if endless even.

Late again. Those small, bare hours, when a half poet knows he has never said anything. Never sang.
And when a whole poet morns that he ever did.

We forgive music for marring the still. We forgive words for scarring the page.

It's all cut from the flood, and we have stillness left (and so many blank pages), so we live into the forgetting that's forgiveness by default. Even if that's only cruelty holding its breath.

"He asked forgiveness, and wondered if he was asking to be forgotten. And asked too often. And wondered enough to wallow."

The Spring comes to relieve, and not relive. Still, though the clock jumps forward an hour, the season's first warmth whispers: Lover, you'll be the death of me . . .

If meaning hadn't ceased, forgiveness would come wallowing again.
But these are smiling, speechless hands.

Focus. A moment is passing.