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.



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”

One comment

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published.