Wood Hill

I still have your oak leaf pressed
in a book between yellowing pages
While in the yellowing pages of my
memory lyrics still sometimes swirl,
“close your eyes and think of me
and soon I will be there…”,
as pages of gleaming metal and
bright paint turn,
BSA, Triumph, Honda, Suzuki
fingertips lightly grazing, hard cherry
candy shared between not-quite-touching
lips hidden
in an overhead compartment of rumpled
quilts that smell of miles traveled over
sand, desert, high sweet meadows,
to red hills and dirt roads lined with
pine trees and wide silence
You question my loyalty as she lies
dying and I think you don’t know me
at all
as I don’t know you, a few days in a
cloistered world were long ago and
barely remembered.

6 thoughts on “Wood Hill

  1. mmm….you make the memory tangible with the leaf, have a few of those relics…def bittersweat as you go along…and the realization as well that they never really knew you…or you them…ouch


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