Imperial palaces glint golden.
Gossamer blue butterfly wings descend,
downward to the rotting ruins of human hubris.
Antiquity,
arcs like a dome over disappearing dynasties.
Collapsing columns stagger beneath the sun’s eternally angry inferno.
In that dream, Grandfather turns to me and tells me our home had been on that ancient shore where the sea blindingly blue had deceived him as a young man.
With a sweep of his tanned, wrinkled hand he signals to that incomprehensible emptiness that occupies our American space.
Midwinter moon.
Grandfather, like mist, slips away.
Taking with him that last thread of my connection to that world time erased.
Jenny W. Andrews copyright 2022
Jenny Grace's Poetry and Creative Writing Techniques 