Your Memory Accosts Me
A poem by F.D.

Your Memory Accosts Me

Like the baby copperhead at the margin of verdurous cornfield,
flash of sunlight on small, sable hourglass shapes,
shaking tender green tail tip, luring–daring me to come closer

It’s the nature of memories and baby copperheads,
they coil and rock side to side, rolling deep,
threatening to spiral out of control, unless
I give them the attention that they crave

Then righting themselves, like a gyroscope–
something I can’t do–my gimbal cracks and folds
at the sudden image of you leaning back in your chair,
tiny, upturned crinkles appear on the outer corners of your eyes,
impish smile–striking with such force and precision,
desiccating my heart

Hot breeze blows my crumbling bones deep into the rich, moist
loam of cornfield–pupating, I regenerate, safe from curious crows
Harvest me early when the silks turn brown,
fledgling, moth-like, I start again.

About the Author:

F.D. lives in the southeastern United States, along with her husband, two cats, two dogs and an Arabian gelding. She writes about grief/loss and the restorative and transformative power of nature, as well as anything else that piques her curiosity. Her hobbies include anything horse related, reading and crochet. She has a poem forthcoming in Plum Tree Tavern.

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