Image by Lana B.I started up the path to your door,
I imagine myself,
The homeless one,
I push the cart,
I am heart sick and weary,
I fumble through the bits
And pieces in the bundle I carry.
Examine the tiny cotton gown that was yours,
I hear the gentle voice of my Father,
I find in a carefully folded wrapper,
The tears of my GrandMother.
On a paper, old and worn,
Yellow with time,
There is a sketch of my house,
Where we lived and loved.
It's all there.
Dissolving into memories,
Crumbs dropping to
The bottom of my pack.
So much is forgotten...
When you open the door,
You will find,
I will no longer be.
But I will leave a note for you,
With the words stitched by hand,
Blown on the wind.
Remember me.
Annell Livingston
Posted over on her site Somethings I Think About
Listed as #60 over on Magpie Tales 43
2 comments:
Thanks for posting my write. Love the pic.
Somehow that image captured
a lot of the symbols and
imagery of your words.
Sharing our poetics with
all who happen by my site
or yours is a win/win
situation. You gave it to me,
and I liked it so much I
passed it on for the enjoyment
of many I will never meet,
but feel their presence in
my counter and my viscera.
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