Memory Like MudbyAngeline©
Walking back amid the ghost of bones,
the memory of dance, of telephones
and words in unclear invitation
smudged with chance, of what we thought
might be and was or wasn't said,
the metaphors that might have laughed
or whispered lies instead, but always
floated hope in bubbles blown for prayer.
Today a season ends, another starts anew
with me still here, but there's no more of you.
I kept you warm, our promise in September
leaned against a chilly sky. Indian summer
passed, and by and by the snow burnt ash
of what we might have been. Spring falls
again in drips and drops of syncopated rain,
our time sunk somewhere in the mud.
Now only poems remain.
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