The Henckel knife is sorry; it meant no harm.
Peel back the band-aid with care; your scar
needs to think: Be watermelon red or sweet onion beige?

Empties littering the ground near the bin
will attract coyotes. They will howl a hallelujah!
chorus at midnight.  

The expensive wine, your buyer’s remorse, remind you
of your twenties when you didn’t know what champagne
cost. You never paid for it.

You want to make up for seldom telling your father, I love you,
by reliving the boring fishing trips you took.
It doesn’t work.

Easier to remember standing on a farm field
with your mother, marveling at wildflowers
at your feet, Mt. Baker in the distance.

The field, like your mother, is gone.
The mountain breathes on with perfect indifference.

Don’t let the past bring you to your knees.