On Looking Back

Yesterdays, 
forest of night
with the long days of rain and sleets
no one wants to visit, not even the
sentimental, old soul.

Don't look back, 
you urge, but the scar-ridden emotion
has no ear but wayward eyes. 
Tiny voice whispers:
In the spirit of hooting owl at dawn, 
do you see the gossamer of glim from
the pile of decaying leaves?

Hear the tiny voice of forgotten love?
Feel the little hands trying to smooth your feet
that went through many paths?

If none,
how 'bout grab one of the wounds
and turn it into a poem;  and 
look back again for more? 


©Byung A. Fallgren