~BARRY BALLARD~
AUTUMN
Writing it down years
later has to
be
enough, even though
something is
wanting,
something reaching from
the memory
of need
and affection. I see
my father
tromping
through the thick foliage
or standing
amongst
the trees, with the forest
floor
woven year
after year below our
feet.
I see us come
together with what I held
inside
(near
enough to understand
that I still
hold it
in some odd way, rewound
and protected).
And I think he sees the
same child,
or at least
for a moment before he
realizes
this is "now" and that
what we expected
has changed÷for as
far as we can
reach.
© by Barry Ballard
