A new set of words from the Sunday Whirl:
drift, plum, expected, loss, sweaters, stitches, letters, friends, stop, yarn, wind, shovel
The frost, expected, caught us by surprise,
The wind blew friends and promises away,
And yet again in memory they rise,
And drift like clouds across the sky today.
The stitches on the heart have long dissolved,
The letters have been burned, the ashes strewn,
Why bother something that has been resolved?
Stop, memory! Don’t play the same old tune.
‘Why not relive a loss? Awaken fears?’
The same old voices talk inside my head.
The yarn of days is woven into years,
That summer’s ended, and the plum tree’s dead.
My heavy sweaters help me fight the chill,
I step outside, and at the snow marvel,
No, memory, you will not win, I will,
I’ll shovel you like snow. Shovel. Shovel.
Live for the Love of it,
The Happy Amateur