Quilt of Memories

Pale marks and figments of leftover meals
enshrine each and every feeble attempt
to start fresh. In the congregating din
(so many children hammering nails into
useless planks) long-abiding chaperones
may touch an arm—softly and without
rebuke—indicating available space to
refocus attention across those misty
billows of thought, movement, laughter.

Take a part from that textile decay laying
out on the lawn. Patch it into a worn
field of scars where trunks and trumpets
loop outward in golden-greys still pliant.
Make a new stain on an aged land-plot where
mustard and muskets play tug-of-war, since
times overturning time and heaps of spirits:
seem so connected to the total, hereditary
awareness of what is still left to be done.

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