"Regret," by JP Schuette

The grass no longer grows there,

the winter winds blow bleak.

The moss no longer covers

the stones beside the creek.

The birds have fallen silent,

the heron cries no more,

the sands are bare without you,

and still I drown ashore.

I wish to hold your hand again,

to walk among the reeds,

for now you are but memory,

the grasses are but weeds.

The empty branches rustle,

discarding drops of dew.

I want to see you one last time:

to say that, I ...