It's right to honor a broken friendship,
Not to nudge it from our thoughts,
But to bury it celebrating
The sordid with the beautiful,
Mourning it at leisure,
Longer than for our brief guests,
The innocent, disappointing flowers,
With which we speak to the dead.
We are made of our memories,
Our future steps tied to them
By our need for order and progress
And through the odd logic of the heart.
They are the lens through which
We see everything new
And the prism that sets
Each fresh emotion apart
In its still poorly understood beauty.
And so they answer such questions:
Do the winter woods block the sunrise
Or abound with infinite filigree?
Is the chilly beach barren and bleak,
Or washed by the source of life and wealth?
Copyright © 2013 by Dorothy E. Pugh. All rights reserved. Please contact for rights to use poems.