Perhaps regrets are inevitable,
to cry for loss,
a reality as we turn and turn and turn again.
More the fear to never dare,
to inward hold, locked away,
comforted in safety’s pale mirage,
to live as shadows.
Yesterday, I saw the summer’s last furled rose.
A couple at a cafe table, coats cast off, leaning close.
A brown-eyed woman smoking outside a beauty shop.
An elderly couple elegantly turned out, arm in arm.
All of us, like the seconds from the ticking clock
filling the morning room,
or dust caught in a sunbeam.