And who has loved you
When your mind whistles wildly through the empty chambers of time?
What will you think, or say?
Of what merit? And, what to weigh?
When you compare these things,
At the final moment of your heart
As harridans require your last,
stored morsel of you that you had hoped to hide away?
Is constancy the thing? Or mine?
The quality of breath, the energy of Spring?
All flowers admire the sun. Some are better flowers.
Who loved your son
When you glanced back?
It all must matter somehow.
At the very least, sometime.
When your mind whistles wildly
Through the empty chambers of time.