Remorse

The song was never so sweet
until the last note faded into silence.
I've heard it a hundred times before,
but perhaps I've never heard it.

The winter morning on the mountain
is crisp, even breathtaking.  A
thin layer of ice on willow branches
cracks in the frosty wind, the exact
sound of the first bite into a
perfect apple.  How I long for
the delicious chill of that
early morning.

Why do I now harbor remorse
in the heat of this searing
desert summer?  Was my soul
never moved by the glory
of the sun glistening off
fresh snow?  Did I once say
thank you.

Maybe we only know the rich value
of something, or someone,
when the song is done, or when
the snow is melted, or when
love has gone away. 
I remember the healing
balm of silence when the
screeching of life becomes
unbearable, the beauty of
a good friendship when I
feel so alone and abandoned,
the certainty of a Sacred
Mystery when the way is
dark and I am lost.

In the spring of my self-absorption,
so much is missed, seen but
not seen.  O, but in the frozen
days of stark reality, it all
comes clear.  So clear.