The forest is quilted patchwork
and I am a needle drawing thread
along its paths and streams
leaving slender thoughts behind:
images in a human mind, not more.
We lay the blanket on a guest bed
to long survive what made this day:
the youth of sons, sprinting in Fall,
a patch of speckled trees and even
the hemming calm of a still afternoon.
Already these things have changed,
have begun to disappear; the quilt
lays upon a little-used bed, upstairs
in a room my mind will stumble upon,
some years hence, with unexpected joy.
October 2019
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