The Art of Memory (age 11)

 

Here,
I am reminded
again
and again,
of my hand,
 
clammy, limp, and hidden
in the shadow of my sleeve -
curled-up bony shell,
holding only itself
and silence.
 
Memories - sharp touches. When seen,
they flee their detailed homes,
and dull
like the soft end of my pencil.
Under my desk, a willow tree sketch. 

Aching hand, I let it unfurl,
trace one finger
in my palm's crease,
admiring texture,
and not much else.
Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s