What Is Really Lost

Just before the day
She sold the old house,
She took a quiet survey
Through the yard,

And found a yellow truck,
A toy, discarded,
That she’d forgotten, one
That time had marred.

She saw her children, then,
As in before times,
The way they used to play
As sunset fell,

And how, one day,
They left behind the old things,
And moved beyond
Where she could see, or tell.

But what they were
Is key to their ongoing,
The parts of them
Out scattered on the lawn,

For what is really lost
In simple growing?
What part of love
Is ever really gone?

Author: Beleaguered Servant

Owen "Beleaguered" Servant (a/k/a Sibelius Russell) writes poetry mostly, with an occasional pause to have a seizure.

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