Turning

The days blend together,
merging into weeks and months,
thinking upon the years;
the seasons
measure more
by the growing dark,
the growing cold,
the growing old.

I know this song
from beginning to end.
But the end
is fast and slow in coming.
Forgive me
for thinking so hard upon it,
for secretly wishing for it,
for wanting the finale soon.

Gratitude creeps in
and love, too.
They tear gentle holes
in the sorrow, ache, and longing.
Holes that go too fast,
and heal too soon,
and are so easily forgotten.
It’s so strange to glance at memory
and wish for holes.