Dreams and Souvenirs
He occasionally hears the voice of
his mother, gone now for sixty years.
The images of his father, dead now for thirty years,
are mostly still, silent.
Country carnivals are captured in his memory,
wrapped in their colors, smells and sounds.
Raccoons still grab the plums before human hands arrive,
always at night, outside his bedtime window.
Lilacs by daylight, at night fireflies, likely still the same,
as today’s coastal sky carries mist, but no surprises.
Now, the only things which come easily to him are
things he does not desire,
while in matters of Spirit, words get in the way,
feelings being the language of the soul,
as it probably was when he knew it not.
So he looks back now, less interested
in making new memories, savoring this life.
When the time is right,
he’ll live within the Grace of a single day.
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