A Poem

Amos Parrott -- May 10, 1978


The capture
of a face
in a moment,
the body in motion
or resting
in your arms.

Old haunts,
the family home,
a flower
in its day.

What in ages past
would blur
in memory,
a joy or sorrow
crowded round
by pressing events,

Perhaps outliving
all of us. Taunting
with a clarity
denied the mind.


5 thoughts on “A Poem

  1. yes, memories are too often eroded into undetailed shapes, or else sand in the bed you can’t get out, but photos are always a record, even if only pregnant with whatever the mind decides to make them bring forth. Enjoyed it.

  2. Ha! I wish. Probably a haiku in there somewhere, though–they’re just about as bad as sand in the bed. 😉 Really am glad to have picked you up on tweeter, btw–you are the master of retweet.

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