Frozen fingers point, accuse,
indict the earth for all her crimes;
frozen hearts in Trouble’s shoes
hear the fear in Memory’s chimes.
In a world where Winter reigns,
a Narnia ‘neath wicked spell,
who but Spring’s Son breaks such chains,
melts the shackles of such hell?
Engulfed by what the wind blew in,
she shudders in her sleep;
talons of the purest ice
carve memories so deep
they wrap her in a snowy grave,
where dreams become her days;
her heart cries foul, she prays for hope,
and waits for Summer’s rays.
The Cenotaphs beneath the snow
are rotting with the passing years,
the memories of long ago
grow dusty; meanwhile, freedom’s cheers
are fading with the autumn’s night,
blanching like the snow that falls,
democracy may lose its right –
as we forget, Remembrance calls.
*
Today is a day to remember – and as the memories fade from one generation, it is our duty and privilege to pass the torch to the next…
Drifting down a crimson stream,
washed by autumn`s brilliant gleam;
summer`s beauty fixed in place,
seeds of memory sown by grace.
Immersed in gold,
A baptism of fire;
Liquified assets
Cabled by wire.
Locked in a vault,
Deposit of Kings;
Memories gilded
To last ’til the spring.
*
I am memorizing whatever I can from my autumn garden – I need to deposit enough ‘gold’ to last me until spring!
Image courtesy of Appropriately Frayed
Curtains are eyelids, blinking trails of rusty rain from cheeks still as panes.
Glass glows with vague reflections of love and life long gone –
Broken promises, baby bottles,
Whispers and dreams and bumps in the night.
House peers through soul’s eyes and
Remembers it all –
Daytime delights and nighttime ghosts of
Christmases past, festooned with magical light.
Curtains are eyelids to shut out the dust.
Hollow halls are diary pages marked with happy tears and
Funerals and grocery lists;
Words on stained walls are the shell that remains.
Furniture is gone and
Footsteps no longer linger at
That last stair that always creaked.
House has been turned inside out,
Vomiting the living into greener pastures.
But curtains are eyelids and
No one can scrape away the soul
That peers wistfully from eyes of glass…
