does she come to the balcony tonight?
half the light is in my hand,
nothing spills, no image lost.
you are as near as my imagining.
faded gingham folded into a gaze.
cheese and bread, toasted close.
my voice is bright undercover of night
yet in the day, whispering.
your hands more lips than voice.
grandmother Janet is silent now. neither does she listen.
great uncle Louis talks no more. doesn’t teach me tools
anymore. mother, Virginia, is only a photograph.
those were gods in their days.
-
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Neil, this is a very powerful piece of writing. By that, I mean it is better than good. Simple words but they convey a real wallop. The immediacy of loss of memory is stilling and makes me catch my breath. Thank you for sharing it.
Hugs from the Hillbilly,
Elizabeth
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generous of you Elizabeth. I scare know what or how to write these days. best case, maybe in transition to something I only yet imagine but don’t know. (and inclusion says, health issues are taking a full share of my attention for now – elusive calm)
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