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Fragments of the past collect in the corners of my mind

Glistening shards of broken Christmas decorations

fragile and lethal to tiny fingers

Soft and silky carpet of pine needles

in a fragrant forest long ago

Lapping water against a bobbing boat

hot sun spilling reflections like gems

Pages from myriad books

float and settle softly on the floor

A white cat whisker

caught in the weave of a shawl

scratches memories…

I scoop them gently

into a paper boat

and set it free on the wind of time

 

focus aout05

Art: Benoit Saito

 

Ce-matin=St-Jean-de-MathaMy friend wrote this poem. And I felt every word…

for all that was lost,
something else was found … the curiosity,
for no particular reason,
to see what was inside.
sometimes i am released from
everything that was ever bad,
anything left to create a horrible memory.
sometimes it is all gone.
the only thing that i am left with is
the hope of something more –
that one day i’ll look up
and smile about what such a tragedy it was.

Unlike everyone else who could sleep for days, even months – and there were stories of those who, lost in their dreams, slept for years and, like On, were finally forgotten – Ona woke up often. She lay in the darkness with her eyes closed, wondering where she was. Was it Tu, or Tam? Stepping outside, she observed the receding forest and a growing silence that seemed to descend on the valley. The sun was slowly disappearing over the horizon, and she felt as though she would never see it again. The homes were empty, and there was no one around. With a sudden realization, she knew she was the last one awake in Tu. She walked through the quiet and deserted hamlet until she came upon a solitary weeping willow, its long soft branches like tendrils touching her face. She lay underneath the dark sky and fell asleep. 

On the white beach coloured pebbles waited for her and the blue ocean beckoned…

                                                              *

©aother