The Grace of Remembrance

May not the little time I had with you
Be swallowed in the whirlpools of the years,
Nor these tears washed away by bitter tears
As dew is lost in rainstorms, though the dew
Has drenched the grasses. May these days, though few,
Not blunt their sharpness like a pair of shears
Dulled upon harder sorrows, shames, and fears,
Or mere monotony, but bite me through.

The sore that opened when I saw you wear
Misfortune like a flower—may it smart
Anew each changeful weather of my soul
To hurt me in my querulous ease and tear
The scabs from memory, from mind and heart,
Because I need such wounds to keep me whole.