– Tara Betts – 

It’s not just buildings that crumble.
A whisper of ebbing songs in elders’ bones
mimics the way our own joints tumble,
spilling a hard cascade of cracking stones.
A whisper of ebbing songs in older bones
insist that they were young at least once,
spilling a slow cascade of cracking stones,
a way to fortify or disguise falling fronts.
I insist I was young, at least once,
a brightly lit carousel, covered in dust.
Can I fortify or disguise falling fronts
before the gears are speckled in rust?
This brightly lit carousel covered in dust
conceals a memento or two worn smooth
before gears were freckled in flaking rust.
To remember is the only balm that soothes
the way our joints eventually tumble.
The cliché of change and its constant buzz
hides that more than buildings crumble.
Every cycle has an entrance and exit. It does.