The pebble dropped into the stream
may roll down to the ocean vast and blue,
or, like your love, sink forgotten
into weed-choked mud.
Rain on stone,
pattering cold from stony sky,
washes the dust and the clinging grime,
for memories to build anew.
No light in this air,
this day of damp and dinge,
cold clings like a second skin,
and relentless as the mud-gorged river.
Once so clear, the future,
decked with diamonds bright as stars,
dense and dull now as the river,
swollen with sorrowing rain
and the debris of broken things.