Yesteryear, but still palpably here

Where do we put all of it — whether resigned…or, with determined grit?

Will it be what we wear, until joy feels threadbare

Place it, do we, on some high shelf — that we could walk forth

Fooling ourselves?

Yes, yesteryear, you have the heart’s ear

Yet, you cannot own time — nor our feet, or life’s rhythm and rhyme

Not the movement or music

Not the questions and answers

No more stealing away and distorting our stories, is grief