In the end, I suppose, defeat is inevitable.
The hours are a tide that floods
the rooms of jewelry
and letters and paintings
stuffed between velvet layers
of all you were to me.
The tide wears down
the you I recall,
smoothes the rough edges
of misunderstanding and anger,
pulls you out, a particle at a time.
The tide is stronger than my will.
I cannot close the doors
and keep you, keep you.
You are sand flowing between
my fingers, as you were in life.
first line from Dawn Lundy Martin’s poem “From Which the Thing Is Made”
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