The Molasses Remain

Maple drips in an empty nest,
they've left, but the molasses 
remain, the cupboard is open,
nothing stays the same, not 
the pages nor the faces, those
memories hung upon the fire
can't heat the heart of this nest
nor can the fire burn their loss, 
they've left, but the molasses
remain, the tulips have dried, 
nothing stays the same, not 
the files nor the wild flowers,  
this garden smells wet as if 
that Wednesday hadn't left, 
although the molasses remain,
will we ever regain the eggs,
fill the cupboard ever again?

Sadness sours our maple trees, 
although they've left, even if 
nothing remains the same, not 
the rivers nor the echoes, the
molasses remain, after giving 
our buds a destiny, we burst  
into nectar, we heat up until 
a nebula reflects from our tears
because the molasses remain as 
lava drips from their eyes, a 
sparkless love that never dies.