Sometimes I see him reaching out. His fingers splayed and grasping. Nothing else, just his hand, emerging from the darkness. Small, innocent, trusting. Believing that someone else is reaching back.
I returned and looked again. Time has passed, but some things remain the same. All the world like quiet snowflakes. Falling on frozen memories. I guess I’ll never know why. In my dreams he’s right there. At the end of my fingertips. But my body is paralyzed and I can do little more than look and wait. For the nightmare to end. Only it never does. Just a calm surrender to the past and nagging questions that pull like tiny anchors.
Maybe I was too young. Maybe I was too weak. He was always the stronger one. All those snips and snails and puppy dog tails. No match for sugar and spice. Maybe I just wanted to know what it would be like. The future just something make believe back then.
Now it flaunts itself in the denial of a failed poet. Wasting my life, trying to explain things that I never can.
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
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I like how you have used the quiet of snowflakes to convey memory and remembering;
ReplyDeleteI often think of myself as an unlikely poet, and still I am called back to the poetizing...
it seems that you are, too.
snow faintly falling
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for your contemplation