>> Tuesday, May 17, 2011
Twenty years of dust can make a grown
man cry I realize as I open Mother's
old chest. The dark interior hides the
sheen of the blue dress but I smell her
just the same. Mother.
Tears are nothing, Mother,
but your scent is an eternity
of memory unfurling
in the sea.
I run my fingers through the silken blue
to feel how twenty years of dust
is a lifetime of trying to forget.
I let the dark fall on the dress again
for I know ghosts forgive easy when
there is no light. In the dark, the
blue and the dust do not make a sound.