The lane of history is scoured out
by sands of time. The blaster of recall
erodes the rims and makes a coward out
of witnesses, whose memories enthrall
by comforting, and hold just close enough
to truth that they are sanctified in mind.
Reality is unrehearsed and rough
no matter when, and though it’s sometimes kind,
it rarely is as smooth as it appears
when viewed across the acreage of years.

So I am set to sift the sacred sand.
By sieve and brush I’ll try to understand
that yesterday was sadder than today,
and some tomorrows promise holiday.