Sunday, November 11, 2012

All these things


Sun overhead,
you pointed
to the wind-tossed grasses.
This is a memory now.

Together in that first sun,
so vivid:
there must be a pattern

I’d hung my life on.


Snow dropped in clusters,
staggered & jagged.

We don’t matter a bit.

Reflected in lake water:
all these things I’ll forget.

Nate Pritts, "& then afterward"

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