It's how we look at it

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.