This is the memory place, the preserve
of hollow wallpaper grandmothers,
stale gingerbread eyes balanced on
straw shoulders, fragile as a dream.
In this place, maple-leaf red and long
as love letters, her hair revives again.
The swing rope rewinds itself and
her feet are steady on the knot.
This is the place where what once was
soaks the air like a diary left on a porch rail.
Everything is musty, throats close, eyes water
until I take my place, brittle, superannuated,
a carousel horse with painted eyes, spinning.
This one hits me in the heartstrings. The hollow wallpaper grandmothers, what once was........ like a diary left on a porch rail - your images are always amazing. Beautiful.
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