“Grappa”

Gone.

Never owned.

Not possessed.

 

A hold on you –

at least for a time,

but mostly forever.

 

Recklessly time goes,

squandered on detail

where hard-pressed implies devotion,

truth is necessity.

 

Snippets,

Scraps remain

Pictures lodged in by-ways of recollection.

 

A blonde toddler

stands the fog-strewn Maine beach.

 

A red jacket

skips the sun-dappled path of a fall morning.

 

Wispy hair settles

over a perfectly shaped head

absorbed by the Berenstains.

 

I am older – not old

That comes later.

 

Vivid echoes will be washed down the corridors of days,

clear and pure,

where tempos beat an unmeasured journey.

 

For now –

A smile lights strawberry blonde hair,

more berry than gold.

 

One arm swings as the room is circuited

He pauses – looks

“Grappa funny”

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