There is a me you would not recognize, dear. They’ve taken their toll, these latter days. –Over the Rhine, “Latter Days”
Forgive me, I thought
I knew you. But that
was yesterday, before
you saw the milky flowers
all a-blossom beside
the dirt road. That was before
the two crows sat
side by side on the branch
above the open window
and sang their one-note song
for how long, how long, who
could say what it is that changes
us, but we adjust, we grow new.
It doesn’t need to be meeting
the minotaur or gorgon, doesn’t
need to be losing a daughter
or trust, or feeling the melting wax
of our wings as we begin to drop,
though these things, too, but
change might arrive with the scent
of a lavender candle,
the voice of a missing friend,
the black taste of rye,
the way the high clouds shred
to pink in the sky,
an empty park bench,
or a scrap of good news, who
can say how it is that we change
with these things,
but we do, we do.
My dear, I did not mean
to presume. You change, even now,
from the one I thought I knew.