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By Marie Woodbridge

A Preference for Hindsight

By Jesse Randolph

So many odes are of the spring—
The world is gorgeous then.
New life springs up before our eyes
And flowers dance beneath clear skies
And futures fill the hearts of men—
It makes us quick to sing.

So many songs are of the dawn—
It is a gorgeous sight.
The darkness bows to pink and gold
Warm rays of light draw back the cold
And bird calls break the silent night—
It makes us quick to fawn.

We often forward turn our thought—
To sunrise and to spring.
Where flowers bloom and spur the heart
Where colors flare and chances start
When futures could hold anything—
But futures often rot.

A flower picked is quick to die.
The dawn can only pale.
The maybes that the futures hold
Can pass or fool or just go cold
Or chances that look ripe taste stale—
But hope can elsewhere lie.
So many odes about the fall
Are rooted in lament.
The forests seem to shed and die
And rot and frost enlace the sky
And one year’s chances have been spent—
The world slows to a crawl.

So many songs of sunsets speak
In elegiac tones.
The sun is lost and once again
The shadows haunt the world of men
And leech the spirit from our bones—
It surely sounds quite bleak.

For hope, we rarely look behind—
To autumn and to gloam.
Where leaves fall off but brilliant stay
Where sunsets deepen, burn, make way
For stars that last, and point us home—
To hope of a different kind.

My heart resides with autumn storms,
With sunsets, and with pasts.
In dreams that I have lived, it dwells
But these dreams stay and so it swells
And finds new hope in that which lasts—
That which forever warms