his memory
crawls into
her mind,
winding and binding
and finding a way
into her stilled
and hollow heart
Memory
Tag Archives: memories
Blue things lately
afternoon winter skies
atlas jars
small aquamarine on a silver chain
a plastic bottlecap in the woods
and the memory of your tender blue eyes
A Smell
i picked the pine cones and carried the smell on my hands the rest of the day
and it reminded me of that time when we were young and we played by the swings
where your grandfather killed the big snake and my grandmother made us lunch,
we ate our lunch by the pines behind my house and i could taste the smell of those trees on my toast and carried it with me through that day, through my life and into today, 40 eternal years later
Picking Poppies
I remember when she picked the poppies in the garden
and that photo was snapped on a summer afternoon.
A short time later, she became ill and was never the same
person again. But there, in that photo, she smiles while
picking poppies and that day becomes engraved in our memories.
Remembering
Remember the thrill of spinnning in circles
and the smell of the earth in the month of May?
Remember Christmas morning when you were 3
or the smell of funnel cakes and cotton candy at the fair?
Remember when the grown-ups remembered
and the stories seemed disconnected to your little life?
Remembering This Moment: Desert Profiles
This Moment inspired by Amanda Blake Soule at soulemama.com
A Single Memory
I search my mind for anything to hold close–
and remember only that she loved yellow roses.
Remembering this moment: shop window in Santa Fe
This Moment inspired by Amanda Blake Soule at soulemama.com
Remembering this moment: Confetti and McCartney
This Moment inspired by Amanda Blake Soule at soulemama.com
Blue Panasonic
On a small Ohio farm in the 1970’s, my cousins fixed Ford Mustangs in a musty old garage. A round blue transistor radio played a rock AM station while they worked and laughed and sometimes fought.
There was corn being grilled outside for dinner and bonfires burning bright on summer nights.
I shelled sweet peas in the yard with my great-grandmother and for every pea I’d throw into the bowl, three others were eaten.
There was long hair all around, a motorcycle buzzing and the James Gang playing softly in the background. There was a pool table in the basement and sometimes basketball was played on a tattered hoop.
The soft pillows on outdoor wicker had brown, orange and green squares.
A short time ago I walked into a dark, antique shop on a dusty city street and saw a radio gleaming on a shelf. Memories washed over me in huge, sheltering waves.
Sold.
spanishwoods 