Letter From a Future Self (Poetry)

There’ll come a time — and time is rolling fast —
when this today will be long in the past
and tears shed now in sorrow and in pain
will seem a summer storm — a fleeting rain
and passion, too, will fade its fiery red
and leave a pale rememberance instead.

Years do not count us, though we measure them
and fear that happiness won’t come again
yet seasons turn and age can compensate
for what was lost, or sometimes left too late —
small things become significant — we’ll learn
to treasure what we have and not to yearn

for dreams that were impossible — that star
that gleamed so brightly — lured us from afar
when wild ambition filled the gap between
the way we were and how we might have been —
the careless world moves on — relief will come
accepting, in the end, what’s done is done.