©2021 Susan Noyes Anderson
Time heals all wounds, so they say,
but do these words hold true?
If yes, such healing plays me false, son,
when it comes to you.
Time fades the line of chin and cheek,
renders your image more oblique,
softens your voice and blunts your gaze,
cloaks sunlit memories in haze.
The sight of you, acutely missed,
grows dimmer in the circling mist
of days and weeks and months and years.
I pray it never disappears.
Our world should not accept with grace
your loss, but rather mourn the place
of emptiness your dying left:
Earth, sky and stars reduced, bereft.
Time does not heal the loss of you.
It slowly steals you from my view,
spins shrouds of absence to break through.