The Death of Memory

Oh faculty of mine you keep

like a bit on a painted horse,

for as you spin,

your markings thin,

and life resumes its course.

So will showers grace these grounds and darling buds will bloom

and heat will rise to dry the cries that nurse the trodden womb.

So soft were eyes that mirrored skies

encased in what would die,

clutching wings of waxen strings

assuming he could fly.

The ghost of the willow warbler’s cry

will clip the snoring streams

as by its coo, will shock the yew

to mend the fading seams.

-Amy Struthers

(Image by: Anne Nygard)


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