Fading Memory Ritta Moon
On a winter's morning I stare out my window watching the wind rip through an old oak planted in a neighbor's yard. Strong yet bending leaves shoot away from creaking branches like life from years of worry. Once free, they tug at the loosening sleaves of a crippled old man warming themselves in the autumn sunlight. They sit there in silence, minds slowly inching closer to the idea of fading memory.
I No Longer Hold Dave Scurry
I no longer hold your scent in the cup of my memory, your skin of white water and hair of charred distress. My lungs gasp for beauty but the animals encircling your pale ankles drip the blood of my wounds. I now wear these precious aches like a slipper dipped in the moment of your parting.
Umbriate Press Poetry 