memories

my memory of you 

laying in palms smooth 

buttermilk cupping for gentle gaze

at Time’s past. 

cycled through the ages, 

moments of remembering 

only fill the outreached hand. 

I can not lose any more.

I fear as I move further from you –

what will stay

will sit 

propped on the head of a stick pin.

ready to jump

and I will have nothing to grasp 

or to gather.

your ghost will mix 

like smoke in wind.

gone.

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