Saturday, November 12, 2016

Memories, some from a perhaps future

 walk back up there,

   Pass an indifferent sword,
    its flames now dimmed,
     its possessor absent

    And to find,
   that apple,
  two bites less.

 And to eat again--
such a sweet sin!!!
 --but it doesn't
  matter now.

   Now to look:
    mists fill the air, but one
     senses that a fire built,
   here, for warmth and
 society, would
burn forever.

 The air contains an
  almost scent, as if the
   possibility of all scents
    felt us coming, and is even
     now hiding, or perhaps

 Scraps of paper litter the hills
in this garden, and the flight
 of birds fills the air. Where
  they come from, and where
 to, I do not know.

Slithering obliquely, a trail
of a snake extends over the
top of the next hill.  He who
perhaps WAS once welcome,
is gone, to return no more,
his work complete.

 One senses this is no place
  for banks, or post offices,
   Law clerks, or law.

  The air has ears, and poetry is
 never forgotten.

Ah, to remember is to learn!!!

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