Chrysanthemums
In that time when the leaves
Are on fire,
Sparks from the autumn sun,
I return
To my place of nurturing
And ancestors.....
It’s there that sleep becomes
A deepened slumber,
And those old forgotten dreams surface once
More, like a cork
From a floating bottle,
A discarded life
Coming back like a ghost in the midnight
Hour.
Far off the cemetery holds the memory
Of grandparents and they too
Have found a new journey, their old selves
Expanded like a flood of thought...
My hand is warm when I place the orange flowers
Of October on each grave,
Chrysanthemums,
And in a split second of complete nourishment
I know I’m just passing through
And that my childhood has vanished.
Copyright © Kathryn Sweeney | Year Posted 2020
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