Tag: the past

Notebook: Late 1980s

I cling to the past

to you in shadows of amber, grays, and fading indigo skies; fading light at the end of my days.

Your voice betrays your heart; you fail to have that part of my closed heart you briefly possessed.

The world babbles into chaos; I know I stand here alone among skyscrapers that bury me on this crowded street corner.

Train rushes past; I fail to grasp the image of your handsome face reflected in the shattered glass door that slammed shut.

Loneliness swells around me; crowd jostles me.

I want to deceive myself.

Like the shattered glass, I shatter.

Shades of dying light in hues of lavender, sepia, and soft rose.

Shifting world; shifting hues of light.

Jenny W. Andrews copyright 2023

Acorns

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