Most secrets are unvoiced desires
silenced through fear’s propriety,
and snide doubt’s quibbling frost.
I’m cold, though it’s summer
with a meadow full of flowers.
Photographs are laid on the table
as a way to organize memory
into a digestible narrative.
The image quickly becomes itself,
a question unfolding like flowers,
until mirrored dreams no longer need
us to complete their reformations;
leaving us, finally, to trust silence
will cradle us away from possibility.
(June 29, 2014)
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