There’s a string around my finger.
The groceries are bought.
The mail is collected.
The birthday cards are mailed.
The appointments are made.
The kids are picked up.
Nothing’s forgotten.
There’s a string ’round my finger
for remembering you.
poem-echoes August 16, 2015
I walk on roads I knew.
Familiar houses I name as I pass:
Janet’s house,
Marcie’s house,
Sandy’s house,
Cathy’s house,
Ayesha’s house,
Annette’s house.
I catch glimpses of them playing in their front yards
or waving from their windows,
Though they have not been children for decades.
Their spectral selves run along the sidewalks
and fill the twilight with lost laughter.
.
.
.
It’s eerie visiting in my old neighbourhood. I can actually see my childhood friends out of the corners of my eyes, but when I look, they’ve vanished. Have you had this experience?
poem-then July 2, 2014
The dorm rang with
youthful enthusiasm.
We were learning to live,
expanding our limits,
and searching for a future.
So many years
and you are different
and the same.
We’re still learning,
expanding our limits,
contemplating our journeys,
and the next turn of the road.
.
.
.
Had a nice visit with folks I attended college with thirty years ago. So much is different, but so much remains the same whenever you meet old friends, doesn’t it? (It’s that ‘time has pleats’ thing again!)
