Slowly you begin to understand
itís not what seemed to matter at the time:
itís what you barely noticed, or ignored.
And then your whole life changes, and you see
how much was wasted, how much lost, yet how
tenderness was always in the grain.
You know you wonít hold on to what you know.
You know thatís not important, in some way
which doesnít add up like a bank account
or shape itself into a long career.
But itís all in that one moment when you know
whatís always there, whether or not in vain.
If you have any thoughts on this poem, Tom Vaughan would be
pleased to hear them.