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Thursday, November 2, 2023

Returning, Sonnet #613

How many remember so much?

I’ve read for some it’s a burden,

That not a thought or word or touch

Is lost, faded or uncertain.

All comes back clear and unbidden,

A constant stream of images

It is prayed might remain hidden.

No, such a past never ages.

The old yew tree in my back yard,

Subsiding, has dug a sinkhole,

Its roots drawing earth to branches.

I fill it in with sand —it’s hard—

I don’t want to choke the tree’s bole

Just to slow small avalanches.

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