As if, discovered slightly crooked, within its place, an apprehension.
children milling about unharmed by squatters,
resin ovals hung on limbs yet to be formed,
crosses piercing the soggy bottom turf, of what used to be.
With this dust, resolutions fade, speck by contemplative speck.
Sometimes I am pushed, stubbornly, to loose sight of…auld lang syne
Sometimes blanketed by here and there…
Often I awaken to missing a mother’s guiding a hand…
a gesture of charity, debilitated or reflectively sublime.
Once upon a village, swaddled in quilts of yesteryear…
Once an angel with spurs
A voice only the living could hear.
Soon to be a blackout doused by fabricated flowers.
A small holiday growing smaller…as the future appears.
Complete, paltry entombed antidotes…consigned by my greatest fear.
Each one an affection for weariness
an invisible affliction
all among the petunias that had crimsoned your cheeks…so near.