Saturday, November 17, 2018

 

On beach wandering days,
we snapshot them:
the club footed gull in a tide pool,
standing on its own reflection;
the rain-softened sunrise never to come again.
We blew them up eleven by fourteen,
found frames for mounting on walls:
icons frozen in time till the end of our lives.

Parables
to leap where words limp,
fables to tell others that
they really had to be there,
echoes framed by memory and desire
to haunt us:
ghosts of what can be.

Tom Keene
August 27, 1995