Passing years in tepid blocks, like cold stock, out the door with no receipt.

Faith wanes,
people change,
plans dissolve.
Nothing is solved.

Problems get old and stale.
Dry rot sets to work devouring distinct visions,
until they are brittle and badly defined.

Summers come and go.
Winters come and stay.
And the soulless voice remains.

As this time grinds on like the rusty gears of an ancient tractor,
willful but incapable of lasting,
the driver's mate, ever youthful,
slows his pace and relaxes his grip,
accepting his age.

The islands lost their humor with the frost,
and all the banter of the men we met does nothing to stifle the isolation.

A room can be a prison.
A life can be a sentence.
But it's all about perspective.

Summers do come by,
and their gifts must not be ignored or forgotten,
nor compared to the minuses of opposing months.

The blocks begin to crack and rot can be scraped away with little effort.
Even after the damage is done.

When old visions flicker and fade,
there is space and there is time.
Concoctions can form, bringing new visions,
and the experience is always richer the second time.

We forget the islands,
whose figures have thawed,
time and again,
outside our attentive gaze and its semi-conscious edges.

There are still a few feet left on this reel
and many more reels in storage,
ready to run their course.

Yesterday is not tomorrow and old is only relative.
I understand it as I break the chain and walk forward into sunlight.

Forgive and forget.
There will always be more.