Wed., Apr. 1

There's never been a rumble like the freight that travels past
as a rush of memory goes by, and the images don't last;
you try to fix the sight of change and hold this present "when,"
but occasions keep colliding from the now into the "then."
A growing child plows through life as if they're on a track;
it seems to wind and wander but it never does go back.
Each stage or phase recalls to mind a parent's own lost days
when they themselves were following what seems exact same ways;
it isn't true, which is so hard, to keep in your own mind
when feeling like you know just what they're just about to find.
But even coming to a place, a spot you knew yourself before
looks to their eyes another way, reached through a different door.
So you recall as now you watch the moments in their life,
and try to not relive again the insides of your strife;
their fears and doubts may not at all repeat how 'twas for you,
and this your task, step back and let them do what they must do.