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She listens close and hears her grandma sigh.1
Sometimes memories close in
and the blackout shades on the leaded parlour windows
never slide up to let in the sun.
That Aubusson cannot be exposed
for then the light will fade the rose
and who, then, will see the pink curl
of petals as they unfurl?
Your Grandpapa bought me that
on his return from battlefields
better left in mind
and buried in sacred bits of country
like friends,
souls, journey on,
dust, left behind.
Don't tread here.
Don't stir the air.
Leave these things just like they stand
enshrined fondly where he loved to sit
and read his treasures.
Be happy for the chance
to go out and dance,
assured you'll suffer no harm
and fires, at home, only warm
Don't touch
Don't move
Don't cry
These things I love and am thankful for,
Are not for you to grieve.2
1Victorian Amethyst, by The_Fool ©2004
2Tears of Desire, by Miss Oatlash ©2004.
This poem was mentioned in the Archival Review thread, in a picking through Lit's archive of over 36,500 poems.
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I have to admit over the last couple of weeks I have read this poem several times without commenting. Each time I read it, I gained a different, albeit cloudy and ambiguous, insight. That's just me being a dope, though.
This time I read it and got enough insight to understand it. For personal reasons, this poem spoke to me. This last reading made me see through the widow's eyes and not my own. Very fluid and succinct. Excellent and melancholy. You know what I think of your writing. I still do. This poem is soaked with evidence of how good you are.
Thos poem just flows n dipps. Loved your wording. Just a great poem. More Please~~!!
enjoying your poetry more lately and this one is a good example of why.
This is a beautiful poem as it is all wrapped up in memories. Wonderful. I feel the warmth of your words.
Thankful, indeed.