Runcible Spoon

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You Were Simply a Child


Memory serves,

casting off the hurt of ancients,

these breeze shaken trees realize.

Like a premonition, they change that pain

as memory still through the roots

of absorption.


Trees, the huddled, the outspread,

are shapes to make a space in, be that room

for the breathing after the world turned

to iron & truth kept closing.


You tried.  I tried

re –opening the other

at completely different times

& the timing remained a problem.


Yes, memory serves:  your walls

& my distance while forgiveness keeps


blowing up the derelict trees

I take my lessons from.