I had learned the secret of beautiful women
as a child, from a grown up man
and he shared it with me in return
for me sharing a poem
He said that beautiful women forget
they do not bear old wounds on their chest,
they move forwards past storms
And they emerge clean and tall.
He too shared his thought
in a poem, that i have mostly forgotten
as i have not pursued that kind of beauty
but rather the richness of memories
in all colors and flavors.
sometimes memory burdens
with the depths of its truths
of unforgivable but forgettable acts
justified or not by the quality of possible futures
sometimes the giver turns dark
under the shadows of known facts
but he always comes back.
sometimes he craves the innocent
and bare chested beauty
of the cleaner mind, the youthful body
untouched, unmarked by scars
and the weight of predictions;
and he finds the way out
into the next day.
coming out into light
helps him make the decision
to break with the past.
and if you listen
there is an almost audible sound
of a heart breaking.
his sounded like ice
it was cracking for days
and when the piece that wanted
to get loose finally broke
the wind took it, with all its weight
away it went on the waters.
whatever it's left
will grow back
keep coming those generous winters
and springstorms
filling the rivers
with beautiful salmons
and paint on their backs
stories galore.
