Memories…

I have enough memories from the past

to last me for the rest of my life. My

benevolent memory will not bury them

from which they were born.

A small country church, a chorus of

crows; the splashing sounds of the

brook running through the Birch trees.

The wind caressing the colossal row

of Oaks in the field.

Death road away from the weathered

house of worship, followed by black

feathered angels. No longer will the

water beneath the Birch cool, nor will

the wind surrounding the Oaks embrace

The rocker on the porch is stilled, no hand

waves goodbye. In a cobwebbed corner of

the room, tattered sun struck curtains dance

in the nearby mirror. Childhood is dead.

 

©2013®annjohnsonmurphree.echoingimagesfromthesoul

 

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