They say twenty children cannot play together
For twenty years.
Time spools and focuses shift away from the playground.
Geography supervenes, ally forces disperse,
Brownian motion of sapiens.
They say people are fluid, like water,
But are not as clear.
We, human, ours: to err,
Raise hell and count casualties.
Time is a currency,
We may not have spent it wisely
But, oh, good times we had
Good times we banked in memories
Good times pictures preserved
Good times that rouse fancy smiles.
But fraternal cord, like filial ones,
Snap too, into two, sometimes more.
Let it slide,
There will be time, like Eliot said, there will be time
To frolic in each other’s hands and successes.
There will be dinner parties and peals
Of laughter and harvest of memories
There will be toasts to long easy lives
Accompanying chants of Auld Lang Syne.
For twenty children who played for twenty years
Will bear twenty children who will play for twenty years,