lost and forgotten juveniles poems: Distant hops of a rabbit

 We were once ago,
sometime not too past,
sitting back, admiring rare thoughts
just passed.

What it was — don’t know,
and could never know till now.
A few weeks of surrender,
then lost — just a "habit" somehow?

And days pass,
like the distant hops of a rabbit.
But I disagree — I still
look into that well,
except now its water is dry,
and voices never return from the dark void.

I fill it —
in hope I might see my reflection again,
hear some topples,
the wobbling of waves —
all left behind.
But their turbulence still troubles