Friday, August 14, 2020

At a sidewalk cafe,
along the river
round a round table,
our family sat in a circle.

You talked of new ventures,
finding, fording unknown waters.
A sinewy ripple in your shoulder
noted my touch.

In birthday celebration
you bought three roses
for your sisters and mother.

One rose, of iron-red blood,
flashed darkly as you drew it
from evening hues to catch its smell.

"That," I told you,
"I will always remember."
With hammering blows
on psychic steel,
the blacksmith in me
forged the image
then dropped it into water,
hissing and steaming.

There is a river
between time and eternity.
Its name is memory.

August 20, 1986