I remember her sitting
cross-legged in a white
low-cut cotton dress
speckled with tiny blue
flowers as the sweet sounds
of happy unseen children
playing someplace outside
drifted into her room
on gentle, cool summer
breezes. Maybe it’s too
much to ask from time
for any one moment to
remain fixed and frozen
like a butterfly forever
suspended in golden
amber only surfacing
years later from some
subterranean tomb
to eventually emerge
into the light once
again. It’s certainly true
that all of life seems
a perpetual letting go —
whether in grand funeral
procession style, or
more simply still, like each
dried autumn leaf that one
by one drops from its tree
to get lost with the rest
once the wind begins
to blow cold. So please
pardon the analogy
if I choose to treasure
this sole memory of mine
snatched from the stealthy
clutch of time like a shard
of amber kept securely
in pocket and held
in ready reserve just
for nights like these when
the moon hangs low in
the eastern sky casting
long shadows across
my mind at the end
of another day spent
alone in silent
separation.
