Bittersweet Rush

the old house still stands at the water's edge.
loon calls still echo down the length of the lake in the darkness.
the sky still burnishes the water to pink and gold at dusk
like it always did.

a familiar screen door's slam calls to mind a million old memories,
brings back a bittersweet rush of faces, words, feelings, sights and sounds.

in the yard, dead trees are a child's hands
reaching mute fingers
to an uncaring sky.

some things stay the same;
some things change totally and are gone forever.

it should be that all good things could be chosen
to remain the same,
permanent like sky and water
and all the bad haunting things should disappear
as easily
as morning mist
on the lake.

Copyright Sharon Harris
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