Wednesday, August 15, 2012

The taste is of Raspberry Sour Cream Pastries

Not looking where I'm going,
I step on a patch of frozen time
and slip,
falling into a memory,
hitting my head
on the sidewalk in Kalamazoo,
which must look like I remember
as memory cannot allow
for change.
I stand
and enter a world,
foreign to this version of myself
and wonder,
as always,
how has time
done this.

Thursday, August 2, 2012

It Must be the Shoes

She stands,
beauty in purple shoes,
floating on her island of green,
unaware of the light
slanting in from outside her world,
cascading over her face,
casting sharp shadows,
parsing her world into boxes,
one of which
tries to hold her smile
but fails.

In response to We Write Poems