Shards of the memory
(Shards carelessly grabbed cut deeply;
but carefully held to the light reveal moments of luster.)
In the light of the red autumn day's end,
Gathered wistfully are the shards of the memory
of a friend.
Brush strokes of gold accent the forest green walls
As the sun sighs and nestles in the valleys to the west.
Looking through a small glass, the drink nearly gone,
(The young girls and their belly shirts wanting to be loved
but only being noticed),
I devote remembering to her, the only one
of the twenty five years
who endeavored through all to become my
one true friend.
Considering our youth that has slyly slipped out
the mud room door, and with raised eyebrow,
I look down upon my sunken chest
and chortle as I still grapple with the weights
of the days, not wanting to be "shown up" by my son.
Yet, she strokes my stomach, but more like the Buddhist who
rubs the belly of Buddha.
Scars are memorials of history; But how we remember
divides or unites.
Viewing them often causes within a repulsion
because of our presumptive filters.
But consider the burl of the elm or the mountain range (the evidence
of colliding tectonic plates),
or the gorge cut by the river.
Of the six, only one was in a hurry.
And the long nights of coughs, ending with two bundles
on the screen porch.
The capture of time is an elusive gambit.
In the end, it is time that has placed its bonds on us.