Poesy

of the day.

My past is an old coat I cannot shed.

My friends all tell me to throw it away,

Not knowing that they languish in the seams.

The coat is so weighty, I work to bear

Its stories woven tightly in the cloth.

There tales of sorrow are, memories stark,

Of a thousand little failures and crimes,

Crimes of omission, crimes of commission.

Why can I not see? How can I not know

What pain I cause when living for myself?

Perhaps God knows. And perhaps all my sins

Stowed neatly in the pockets of my coat

Have been forgiven by those I have harmed;

My prayer is that they have, the forgivers

Free now to know what concord lies therein.

But what of the dead, who reside also

In my shawl, and call to me in the night,

Their voices, their faces, so near and clear?

No reconciliation will be found

In this disconsolate life; so I plead

That when someday I meet them after death,

I can discard my heavy laden wrap,

And join them in an everlasting peace.