Winter delivers. Winter claims back. He came and went through Janus gates. He beamed like clear blue skies despite the dead, despite the ghosts that never left, despite the pink-flesh scar upon his chest. Despite his damaged heart he learned forgiveness of the self, he learned to live again—with eyes as blue as June he carried summer to its death.
POETRY AND PROSE: A CONUNDRUM
Would've, Could've, Should've
Pepper Miller
Jan 05, 2025
In the quiet hours of dusk, when shadows whispered soft and low,
A task was handed down to me, a challenge I had yet to know.
“Go forth,” they said, “and do this deed. It’s yours to see it through.”
Yet there I stood, in silent thought, with time’s constraints and fear’s taboo.
I could’ve seized the moment then, with courage in my heart.
I would’ve woven wonders. I would’ve crafted art.
If only I should’ve braved the storm and dared to take the leap.
Instead, I watched the minutes fade, as dreams and doubts did steep.
I could’ve scaled the heights unknown and touched the stars above.
I would’ve danced with destiny, I would’ve cherished love.
If only I should’ve faced my fears and let my spirit soar.
Perhaps I’d find the strength within, to open every door.
I could’ve harnessed fire’s light and shaped it in my hands.
I would’ve spun a tale of hope on life’s vast shifting sands.
If only I should’ve walked that road, and left regret behind,
I’d find the peace in knowing, that life is undefined.
Now here I sit in quiet thought with lessons carved in time.
I could’ve chased the fleeting dream. I would’ve made it mine.
If only I should’ve held the pen and wrote my story clear.
Instead, I linger in the past where “if onlys” reappear.
But life is not a tale of woe nor chains that bind my soul,
For in each moment here and now, I still can play my role.
I could’ve, would’ve, should’ve learned that time is always new.
And every task and every dream, begins with what I do.
So let me rise with strength reborn and cast aside my fear.
I will embrace the tasks at hand, with purpose strong and clear.
For in the echoes of the past the future’s seeds are sown.
And in the journey here and now, true growth is always shown.
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I'm an eighty-year-old white man, married to my lovely wife for 56 wonderful years. I teach two Poetry and Creative Writing classes at the Senior Action Center in Greenville, SC.
This poem beams like clear blue skies, Fotini—the Rachmaninoff is a nice touch, too! 😊