Season Fade and So Do They

Here for a season, or so, they “come and go talking of Michelangelo.” [1]
Never rooting, just tilling – never planning for a harvest
Here today, gone tomorrow, leaving a breadcrumb trail of sorrow
Heartstrings snuggly connected. Were they not detected?
Over plucked cords are soon rejected. The grass is surely greener,
brighter, full of new life on the other side of the horizon
I guess there’s nothing more to say. Their words disappear,
picked up and carried away in the winds of yesterday
Why’d I look back? I’ve learned that lesson the hard way
Now rooted, a vibrant and healthy soul. Do I stay or do I go?
The cycle of rebuilding and starting again has grown old
It’s so cold without the comfort of their warmth. It’s so cold
The weeping willow shudders, folding in on her solitary darkness


[1] From Eliot's "The Love Song of Alfred Prufrock"