Ours

We’ve all dashed so 
far from where we started
I hardly remember
youthful farsightedness is easily 
lost on the duties that fill our fingers
The clouds that clot our sight
do not mean we live in a fog 
The white black that consumes our 
plodding phases is not our 
eternity 
I have to believe that something of seventeen
still lingers, although she pains me with 
her adolescent optimism, I return 
hoping she wasn’t wrong 
that there is beauty in the stacked stones
along the path -that there is a path indeed, 
mountains to be scaled and conquered
that the world is still ours