sentimentalist | feminist | poet
How brief, yet how full that first encounter
between you in your prime and me in my
secondhand life. Hello, treasure hunter,
would you like to dig through this box of mine?
You gave new perspective on retro plans,
games, and puzzles, walking me back ten years —
to the foothills of adulthood, Old Man
in the rearview, set to play pioneers.
Time tends to create an opaque membrane,
with more limited optical clarity
behind the lenses of eyes
that automatically adjust for distant targets,
when someone, who is very fond of blue,
comes near.
It draws the taupe veneer of history
over the windows of the heart,
goading light from the front of the house—
What if I could shine from inside out?
the memory of the pansy, bold faced, persisting
through whiplash weather.
March 14: snow.
March 15: storm of pollen
over the mountains,
across the flats,
down into the valleys —
everywhere,
everything,
flourishing
all at once.
It was my first hay fever,
I think, but it is hard
to think back.
So much happens each day.
