To all sorrow
There comes an end
As with all joy
Though it seems that the former departs sooner,
And the latter clings more faithfully,
Grasping even like a jealous lover.
Sometimes sorrow need never vie with joy
For the possession of her beloved:
She finds him quite alone,
Defenseless and impoverished for attention.
But there comes an end, nonetheless,
To even her hateful embraces.
Sometimes it comes only in death,
But not so always,
Perhaps not even in most instances.
Ultimately, every sorrow is slain by neglect;
Time passes and brings new events,
And we are drawn into action
Out of the wells of reflection where sorrows
Nourish themselves in greatest ease.
In the end joy and sorrow are merely two estranged sisters
That are born and that die regular deaths in us.
What remains, then?
Our deeds, our communications,
Our experience, our talents, our wisdom.
These truly are ours to hold,
To keep until it no longer matters.
These, indeed, are our own.
George Chadderdon © 2001