Caught in a thunderstorm
running home
from the vineyard
with their hoescrowned
by chickweed
where metal meets woodthe two held fast
by a nailsealed
with blood
Memory
If memory is a bridge, what does it cross, how long is its span, and how high above?
If it is a graveyard, whose bones does it contain?
If it is a church, who is nailed to the cross?
If it is the final refuge, how does it come to be lost?
Categories: New Poems & Pieces
Tags: Chickweed, Diaries, Journals, Memory, Our Old Farm, Poems, Poetry
