we talk about the past
as if polaroids
don’t fade
or go missing
from old shoeboxes
left in a hall closet.
but most of life
is like watching a slowly
setting sun
slip inch by inch
behind a line of rounded
tree-lined hills,
the bottom-side of clouds
shedding layers
of clothing
from orange to burnt
umber and finally
lavender into gray,
and you’re left breathless
for more
as night wraps you
in a cool blanket
of quietude
and forgetfulness.
