What Happened to the Days We Left Behind

This was named for its first line, like an Emily Dickinson poem.

What happened to the days we left behind,
recklessly wishing ourselves forward,
forgetting the desolation
that lies in wait
like a panther crouching around the corner,
tense as horsehair,
sable needle-claws stretched taut
to lash long lines in every heart?
Why let a single moment go
when every passing second
brings nearer
the inevitable full-fledged bloom of the rose,
crimson perfection severed neatly at its apogee
by a gardener’s perfunctory slash-and-snatch pilfering?
The fruit ripens,
heavy on the limb—
pendulous, pregnant with syrupy juice, threatening to fall
at any moment.
As the vendor exhales into the latex—
one last breath—
he ties off the tight-swollen sphere
neatly, without a thought,
and lets it go.