stories of ice and wind

I had learned the secret of beautiful women

as a child, from a grown up man

and he shared it with me in return 

for me sharing a poem

He said that beautiful women forget

they do not bear past wounds on their chest,

they move forwards past storms

And they emerge clean and tall.

He too shared his thought 

in a poem, that i have mostly forgotten

although i have pursued that kind of beauty

but rather the richness of memories

in all colors and flavors.

sometimes memory burdens

with the depths of its truths

of unforgivable but forgettable acts

justified or not by the quality of possible futures

sometimes you crave that kind of bare chested beauty

the cleaner mind, the youthful body 

untouched, unmarked by scars

and the weight of predictions

then you bring it out

when it helps you to make the decision

to break with the past

and if you listen

there is an almost audible sound

of a heart breaking.

mine sounded like ice

it was cracking for days

and when the piece that wanted 

to get loose finally broke

the wind took it, with all its weight

away it went on the waters.

whatever it's left

will grow back

keep coming those generous winters

and springstorms 

filling the rivers

with beautiful salmons

and paint on their backs

stories galore.