Without trying
I remembered a play I had read
once before,
about war and empty woods,
as I walked alongside a man
I had once known clearer than myself.
A boy ate a cooking apple there
as he tried all he could
to make his way through days
far from his own design,
and as green hills grew steeper
and the man I had known so well
walked farther ahead
I saw with utter clarity
that there was only forward
and yesterday was dead.
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