image from dreamstime.com
Winter returns, yet the clock keeps another season, Holding one blue afternoon behind its patient hands Inside its ticking, a forgotten garden still flowers, Soft as the voice that once crossed the porch each year. Pendulums know what memory will not confess: longing survives motion. Every anniversary awakens a room the heart thought closed. Remind me, old clock, why vanished hours continue to whisper.
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Be the first to comment on this poem. Encourage this poet.
