03 November 2013


Origins slip
as memory sleeps
deep as covered words.

The silence of untold
traditions folded up
in letters with bleeding ink.

The pink
rose borders adorn
yet prick like thorns
for flowers unsmelled
and fears unfelled.

I have ignored
her life’s reports
of sewing and mowing;
she told of
reunions by the lake,
and related
news of
views of
the mountains
and hovering hummingbirds
or cousins taken ill, please pray for pity’s sake.
She gave
me recipes of potato salad
and rhubarb sauce,
both slightly sweetened,
like ages-old hymns
at summer church socials.

Her husband pulled the whole engine out
and replaced it with a new stout block
while she split hard wood as flocks
of wild geese made wing to warmer climes.

Those were steel times
known to me now by
the delicate paper I hold
with the torn fold.

Today, her home is sun
and water;
her letter wings
to me still with practiced hands
that appear as weeping windows,
ancient glass, melted sand.

I recollect my life through hers
but the memory of her loss still hurts
like soft blooms nipped off young stems.

by troy cady

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