by Dee Newman
When given no more than a backward glance
And abandon without reason or rhyme,
Healing’s more likely a matter of chance
Than ever merely a matter of time.
Though Love’s foolish heart has tried to move on,
To understand and accept the absurd,
Time will not destroy what has come and gone
Even though silence is all that is heard.
Like the breeze that blows out a candle’s flame
While it proceeds to feed and fan a fire's,
Absence will arouse Love’s longing and tame
What were merely capricious desires.
Yes, time matters not to Love. Love is blind.
Though out of sight she’s never out of mind.