TO MEMORY
Do I miss her? Oh sure,
sometimes. Those were
the best and worst of times,
a Dickens of a time.
She wouldn’t get that
and there it is. That was
the divide I could never
cross, no matter how high
we flew. Hell, yes, I miss her.
I miss her when fireflies
spell our names in the hollows
of a soft Spring night.
Uncork the wine; I’ll drink
my solitary toast to memory.
Stephen Brooke ©2006
As winter gives way to spring, it is time both to harvest from the past and to plant for the future.
adventures in dysthymia
Tuesday, January 31, 2006
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