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Brown Paper Bags
A ladder of nine rungs leads
up to a loft in my home,
a storehouse of memories
wrapped in brown paper bags,
collecting dust. Poetry books,
photo albums, framed pictures
of my ancestors from Ohio,
the elder poet among them.
What have I awakened to this
morning? A memory of my
deceased father? That, too,
should be poemed so that it
can collect dust in a loft. Here,
my father is memorialized in
a portrait--his portrait--fading
with the edges crinkling.
Like the dream I had last night.
My father was helping me move
and unwrap furnishings for my
new apartment. As he left, he
hugged me so tight I just knew
he was with me again. But, no.
I woke from this dream to
find myself wrapped in a
torn paper bag of grief.
Copyright ©
Carol Louise Moon
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