Twice each year the absence digs a deeper hole. The day of your birth. The day of your death. What I should have said. What I should have done, but did not.
But time has other sides. Ends also have beginnings, middles. I remember seasons that soared so high they grew wings. And what remains from the center still holds my hand.
on the tree trunk beside me–
spirals, holding on
For dVerse, where Frank has given us the subject of memory.