Memories

Memories If one could store them in the attic without stir and turn to other things, to picking fruit, perhaps, or seeding it, one could afford the dalliance of an hour for one would have the years one knows will not be those whose paralytic youth has just begun, the years whose summer plea for laughter and for kiss somersault the hair and scimitar the smile: the years the sun, the moon, the stars can never order stop. Donal Mahoney