I remember beside her,
the crumbled book not crumpled by age,
still classic at heart,
not watermarked but water-damaged,
the colours sold to my fingertips
with little left for tomorrow.
I paint an echo
with memories left to dance
around a fateful garden
hidden in the palm of my hand
for my butterfly to live
safely wrapped in a wrinkle,
eternal like the skin.


My daughter grows faster than me,
so I blink
and years pass
but I don't see them
don't hear them
just feel the months in my bones.
My granddaughter is beautiful,
deep blue eyes I hear,
hair as smooth as clean,
her smile a thin line of confidence.
She reads well for her age,
takes some interest in my old books
but our time has gone.
She sleeps softly,
the book resting now on my lap.
I open it,
skate my fingers across the first page,
slide them against the paper
faint with love,
imaging where the words are.
I feel it slip from me,
hear it crash onto the carpeted floor.
My back lets me fumble
scratching desperately for it,
at a loss for touch.
The tears of that young girl
trickle down that old face.
Where is my book?

The End

7 comments about this poem Feed