The Way It Works
Hearing your voice today, but briefly,
has put me in mind of an earlier season-
I see the countryside, and bramble bushes,
in a time when blackberry only meant dark fruit
that stained your youthful fingers, and generous lips,
as evening crawled close, and flour flew around an older kitchen.
Then, crusts rolled out, the fire banked, bowls of cream all readied,
the odors of ingredients of Summer bountiful curled up to sweeter air,
while friends and family, now gone by, gathered round the table gossiping,
complaining too, of long forgotten things, unaware that all this was so fleeting.
The memory is mine, not yours, and rises like a fiction-
like something lost, or something once envisioned,
maybe a dream, or did I read it on a page?
Was it performed upon a stage?
It is most definitely, a feeling.
Oh, Never mind. It's still a gift,
and serves us just the same
as if it were reality