Memory

In the morning,
I looked through a window
and saw my face pressed
against a cool pane
that was damp on a
humid summer day.
“Come away from the
window,” she told me.
“An electrical
storm is coming.” Sky’s
dark gray played soft roll
of distant thunder.

In the afternoon
I held the green leaves
of a lone boxwood
tightly in my hand.
Breathing deeply, I
lifted the pungent
odor to my nose
and recalled where the
two bushes once stood
beside the wide porch,
the gray wooden boards,
and his thinning white hair.

In the evening,
I walked beside the
persimmon tree where
once we played before
anything had changed
or anything ended.
I envisioned the
cloakroom where our wet
caps and mittens dried,
and the cold cadence
of winter rain on
the large paned windows.

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