Winter Blues
How I wish I could have clung
to pathos of musings
on this bench in a park:
The same wooden one
which cradled my afternoons,
feeding little birds as memories
gripped the heart-
The sharp stingof her farewell,
right on this spot
drowned time's hands of fate---
that now I hold the seat's arms limply,
if only to recall how my fingers
twined buds in her hair.
All those stories floundering, done .
.
1/4/2018
Contest for Laura Loo
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