Echoes

Is there softness in the slowest decay

of blurring lamentations past,

or the gentle end of a frayed photograph

from one too many hasty hands.

Is there subtlety in the murky waters

of flooded pot-hole puddles,

or the grained skin of sea-tossed glass

from one too many shattered nights.

And is there love in the warped wood

of forgotten oak-lined porches,

worn with trails of mud-soaked boots

from one too many dirty children.

And is there any method in telling

a dignified echo from one of defeat.