Left Behind
A poem is what's immortal
It’s good time I recognize my fading recognition:
Why did five objects and their placement not awaken my dull and timeless self? Within my dimming sight, near my too-busy desk, five fabric fossils fix the time:
Kept cap once worn in sun-drenched Hawaiian swells,
Sea-themed blanket loved alive by a quilting friend,
Shawl crafted with Andean care,
Welcome card of dos amigas we sweetly love,
Dream catcher drooping with its prey.
Why did I not note the ticking of these fabrics, the
remnants of my left behind?
How did I miss these symbols, the fixing fabrics of my having been? Five frills, the durable ephemera seen, yet not seen, reminders of my passage: Dust— as I soon must be — collectives of my too desked day?
Thanks to my friend David Keplinger.
Ahhhhhh, Byron
Splendid offering.
In the early days I was never one for poetry; maybe because as schoolchildren we were forced to memorize stanzas we didn't comprehend
Today is different.
I relish poetry much as I do stained glass windows in old churches wondering how did they do that? I'm not looking for an answer. I am content to gaze & feel my senses fill.
"Keep 'em coming, friend."
You’ve caught the heartbeat of it, Byron. There’s a startling gravity in realizing our humanity is often anchored by the "durable ephemera" we stop noticing until the light shifts. Those five fossils aren't just clutter; they’re the physical echoes of your passage, proving that while we eventually dissolve into dust, the affection we’ve woven into objects remains stubbornly immortal. It’s a beautifully sobering inventory of a life actually lived.