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Personal Note:

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Poem

Of all the senses, 
they say that smell 
is most closely tied 
to memory;
like Proust with 
his madeleines;
like blackberries 
in July,
in the park where 
my mother watched
with patient indulgence,
as my brother and I
propelled our
small bodies down
the shallow hill
in riotous limbs     
and giggles; and
in the waning heat
of early evening,
picked blackberries
for pie in the shade
of the bay trees;
fingers dyed purple
with sugary blood
and bellies filled
on stolen ripe flesh.
Our heads grown
sweetly heavy
with the feat of
a day well met.

We didn't know yet
of the things that would 
break us.

Only vines,
pregnant with
sun-warmed fruit;
my father's hand
around mine.
In the glow of
golden hour, we
thought the day
immortal.

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