There are four rose pink petals in my pocket, they  belong to Zuzu

Cordial stains on napkins after lawn parties on Saturdays in summer

Fireflies hanging like fairy lights among the beech and sycamore trees flickering  and enchanting every eye that sees

Feet in third position, hand resting lightly on a careworn wooden rail as a line of girls in tullé move gracefully as a Degas painting

Radiance from the sun warming nut brown skin fall asleep and burn

Snippets of memories run tracks in my head like Whippets after hares

The cold smooth feel of metal band slipping on a finger a stone of sky blue

Cold chapped cheeks and balm soothed lips and frozen nose tip

Snow falling heavy and wet bending branches snapping limbs

Horse chestnuts fragrant and littering footpath make excellent balls

Midnight roadtrip through mountain battlefields wishing on shooting stars

Wheels rolling on tar patched roads past sweet Georgia pines

Clouds like cotton speed past coach windows on the road to Colonia as the driver sings softly in Spanish

Gray dark gray snow swirling the small black and white tele shows the horror of plane crash at the 14th Street bridge

Some days I cannot remember why I walk into a room with purpose but these thoughts are companions and quick to be drawn

On days when the gloam outweighs the fond and tears flood forth and crash upon my cheeks I reach for Zuzu’s petals


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