Regrets
by John Howard Reid
Of things I’ve lived to regret,
The most pressing is that I failed
To hold you close enough to my heart.
The times I put work before your comfort,
My own fulfillment supplanting your deep desires,
My ingrained friends and hobbies before your primal needs.
We rarely holidayed together. I lived a part
In my separate world where time stood still
While you sculpted, creating a future frieze
Entombed in glowing twists of goblin glass.
You wished me to live your childhood joys,
The birth of summer suns in Westland field.
But I was distant. We never journeyed
Into your future or your past.
My life was darkly mine alone.
You shone on the present edge. And yet
If I’d forced myself to be more open,
Perhaps you would have loved me less.