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Pine






the music ends
and the words fade like a morning mist
leaving only the drifting echoes
as the notes play upon the breeze:
skittish butterflies.

my mind falls into the vacuum
seeking to fill the spaces
with tumbles of letter blocks
left upon a child's floor.

an apple, a boat,
a cat
inspire no more
than the music
I can no longer remember

and yet the sweet scent
of pine takes me away.









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Comments


  • donnz
    October 22, 2008

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    excellent

    in the emptiness a memorable scent brings them back.
    Grown, Visiting grandparents, possibly divorce. Nothing permanent / a gentle tug away.