The Missed Moment

As I look back, taking stock of each moment

Linked one to the next, to form a chain called Time

A sack we choose to fill with baubles and beads

Like children, we forage the woods of life

Gather tiny stones, believing them to be precious

Call them memories, souvenirs

Collected while travelling, from birth to death.

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One such pebble, I have often tried to throw

Again and again into the river of Time flowing ahead

Somehow the pebble finds its way back into my heart

And nestles among the tiny rocks in my sack

This time I take a closer look

At the tiny pebble which refuses to leave

I see a face, your face lit up with love

Love for this little bud that I was

Love so powerful, to awaken the woman in me

Slowly I transformed into the passionate rose.

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For days I waited, for the honeyed kiss

The dewdrops from your lips

I longed for them to be planted on my petals

I shook and I shivered

When the winds of your love

Swept me off my stem, my roots.

Alas, it never came, the kiss

Which would have made my fragrance sweeter

Which would have made my petals

A deeper, richer crimson

The kiss intoxicating everything around me

It never came, I blame my own thorns.

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The pebble comes back, will never sink

Into the profound deep of Time river

It comes back, not choosing to become oblivion

But rather a reminder of sweet moments

Of lips quivering with passion and desire

Of the innocent first kiss, that never came to be……

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Painting by Michael Cranford Beach stones in shape of heart, Fine art america