FLOWERS ON A PLUM TREE

December 18, 2018 / John Grimmett

The days of my childhood
are a winding staircase
into a tower of light:
they blossom in my memory
like flowers on a plum tree
and wilt
like a tired eyebrow.

To go back
is to remember,
for that’s all we have
in days of rock and dust
and ashes spread in honor.

Times could be simple again.
Closing my eyes, I say a prayer to myself,
for I am not sure that anyone can hear me,
and I am grateful for the moment.

The skies part, the next.
And time?
I realize
that’s all we have anyway.

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