A profusion of Queen Anne’s Lace along both sides of the road, offset with patches of tall yellow flowers in bloom — whatever their name, or names, they are the same we see on our walks by the river, and which the bees love. In this gentle-warm atmosphere, one might think, or perhaps only wish, that the railroad tracks’ sole purpose is the transporting of dreams. From north to south on the east side of the road they run, and from south to north, like a sturdy faded seam in an old aunt’s skirt. How well you remember her, and how, during her stories, when sitting, she tugged to keep its hem below her bare knees. And her stories were of the earth.
It occurs to me that I am now of a certain age — old enough to be your father; young enough to be your son; timeless enough to be your angel, your brother, your friend.
July 24, 2020
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Categories: New Poems & Pieces
Tags: Aging, Angels, Bees, Diaries, Dreams, Journals, Memory, Queen Anne’s Lace