By Greg Frohring


without memory i would not have you
remembering; a soft art
a painting that can fade but never dries
in an aging house of cobbled rooms


a secret passage in the closet
leads to the basement where
lifelike images

the grownups are down there
reviving their own memories by the fireplace
summoning them out of their stale shadowed resting places
to gather for a while in crackling light
chatter of those who came before us
that we will never know

Away from their darkened hallways children scatter
this talk of the ancient ignites
the idea that we are ephemeral;
a tree too big for our starter yards

Into the sunlight surrounding this worn mansion spills
possible futures, young shouts
purposefully drowning the past
sparkling fireworks of thoughts
loud promises of tomorrow
and games of today
echo long.
now is the time of my own first memory
bright to this day
i always wonder if she remembered too
and in the same light that i did

the Hush of the carriage house
beckoning early April into hot hints of Ohioan summer
the strong smell of cedar
the brutal laughter of the heartless cousins who
masterminded a kiss of na´ve sooth in the small back room
while they stood guard against those who would know better

Then with a start my reflection breaks
as my wife beckons me back to the fireplace where i now belong

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