He ponderously rocks on the porch,
outside ashen clouds sift down. If he stopped
to sniff the air, he'd smell the coming storm.
In the yard grass grows long and unruly,
while he puffs his crude cob hand fuses
to chair, he inhales a memory.
These are not limited to shades of gray,
they are vivid and vibrant, full of life:
The blond hair of a woman long left.
The bent light of a sunrise through water.
The pale peach of her hand as he held it.
Do not speak to him of these, Adelaide.
I know his mind. In a while it will be mine,
and I'll let these thoughts curl ‘round
me like the smoke, then blow them away
to disperse
in the wind.
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