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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