(like souvenirs in a) worn shoebox.

There is a stone

wall,
–barely a sigh

in the country,
where I’ve hidden

your smiles
& some of our talks,

like souvenirs
in a worn

shoebox.
I’ve left them

there
where the laughter

of the rain,

–green
trickles

upon the sun’s

back
and makes

them shimmer

–gold
in between

the stones.
I layed them

at the seam,
shawled

in my mind,
where the summer

remains
& whirls

with the fall.
At the seam

where that stone

wall
lingers, hidden,

still,
in between
my heart

& my mind
like souvenirs
in a worn

shoebox
where I’ve hidden

your laughter
& some

of our talks.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

______________

img-20150319-00144

Photo: Jean-Michel HATTON

 

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