In Frosted Glass

Nostalgia's cold steel

is double-edged —

wield with care,

and only briefly.

The past is a portal

through which we all pass,

but many will never return.

This is the plight of a mortal,

the mind's eye looking glass

reveals simpler times, for which we yearn.

In so doing, we unlearn

our place in the present —

today withers gray,

no matter how pleasant,

when we gaze too lazily,

too long,

into that frozen eye.

The cool embrace

of a memory, hazily

descried,

can act as a salve or a sedative.

A meditative

moment

may restore some momentum,

but unchecked reminiscence,

ad infinitum,

is as good as death.

Worse, it may be,

for it permits no sweet release.