In Memory of Muse
In vein attempt I have tried,
through the dull sheen
of a half dried tear,
to place your memory back
into this drawer, my dear,
just beneath the letter I
can not open; everlasting
is the scent of your words.
Fading now at the edges,
yellow, but not yet brittle,
memories, creased and crisp
so close to the surface that I
still hear each and every little
fret of the sound of you, denying
me my overwhelming urge
for yet one more moment.
You, invisible in migrant flight,
driven by heir's unseen forces
winging comes the dark wind,
brought to the eye upon the
cracking sway of a tree, upon
a blade of grass twisting to free
itself beneath the bending waist of
a crocus, it's yellow petals held fast.
I beg of you memory, my depth of
torment to cease, singing to me
no more, as I place you gently
beneath
the unopened letter in this drawer.
*the curse of 'writer's block'...
(April 7 2016)
Copyright © J. Tudor | Year Posted 2016
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