To be young and leaving town.
A new wind’s freshness blowing
convictions that the past can’t stop
the budding of your growth.
Supple truths shape you anew,
Pliant with made friends and lovers.
You have made room with an eager discarding
Of bets hedged, dice blindly thrown,
Sorrows dustily stowed in yesterday’s loft.
But old leaves have a habit of sprouting
In your untended garden.