Washing

Months flow by like water down the street,
The days, like raindrops, tinkle in the stream;
Refuse piles up, rain turns to sleet,
Oil skims the top like fetid cream,
Bad moments are remembered. Yet below,
The swift smooth stream still runs, and carries past
The dams of diseased memory the flow
Of good intentions, deep, clear, cold, and vast.
If we can dip beneath the ugly crust,
Skim off the scum and see the joy beneath,
We can be happy - and we know we must,
To feel the cool cold tingle in our teeth
Of liquid happiness. We must forget
The worse parts of the stream before they set.