It has been seven years, and quite enough
a time for wounds to heal. That we may be
mildly amused by moments too far lost
to look back clearly on is testament

that we have come thus far without the fear
of strange nostalgia. Now, long past, the wash
of dirty linen dries, and reason sees
no stain in what was just a shadow’s flight.

For rains must come that earth may flood, and if
our laundry shapèd souls be grown from such
a cleaner soil our separate loves may flower
so coloured by things once together done.

A passing damp brings brighter springs. You have
with you my blessings. May your years bear fruit.


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