‘PREFERRING THESE BRIEF, TEMPERATE WINTER SESSIONS . . . ’
Preferring these brief, temperate winter sessions
Beyond the dawn to any in the seasons,
But realizing they will leave impressions,
Not memories, for temperamental reasons,
I linger on my way, while wind drives brown,
Long, desiccated maple leaves across
A south where distant traffic whispers drown
Behind hale houses, shaded with Spanish moss.
My adult mind from childhood retains
No images of these, but merely hearkens
To fledgling feelings, like the yellow stains
On handkerchiefs as ichor dries and darkens.
Reaching into my pocket, I retrieve
The ones he left to soothe me, and believe.