Souvenirs

The heart’s persistence generates an optimism. Torn willows front a screen of fern. That garden seemed as long as life and at its end my green deceitful sanctuary of uncut grass and thorns.

Sometimes what I remember has a secret feeling about it, as if it belongs to me, like a gift that I can keep and take out and look at when I’m by myself.

Sallow, veined and bitter sweet.

There is a place I can go early in the morning, before waking to the day. Quiet, discreet & for the moment troubled by what refuses to manifest. This is an objective discourse I have with myself, run-on for years with no conclusions. At some point all the paint will have peeled from the house, old weathered siding exposing the original grain. Why paint over it?