September 7, 2011

• 21

  It's a patch of fur,
  now a hand-spun cotton candy cone.
  It's a favorite song,
  now a memory of past lives.
  Caramel and muddy trails
  swirl memories of summer
  into cool drinks and perspiration.
  If I can still taste it
  and feel its stickiness between the whorls of my fingerprints,
  does that mean it's not over?
  Can the shingles pass the rain back out
  and return the dew to spring air?
  I'm loving the color--green beyond the power of purchase
  and orange beyond the beauty of rhyme.

  • 4:15 pm
  • 1 Comment