…the futility

I whisper my love to the slow flowing river
that once carried you far away from me
again the petals are gently falling
and again I never know their names
bright pink and shades of pale
until finally it is their time
and they vanish, quietly taken by the wind
never to return to me
yet I sit alone beneath the trees
year after year trying hard to remember
the exact colours of the blooms
tracing the rings of bark, like grooves in a record
whose music has been lost
quietly I contemplate the futility of their cyclical blooming
and my own deep aching need, to hold on
to the things that were never intended to stay forever
for I could never hold on to you but I still see you in my dreams
I feel your presence everywhere
and every year I bring you petals deep in the heart of winter
for in my aching soul, our seasons still linger
© Ann Bagnall