Fragments of a summer spent
caught up in November wind,
Teeny weeny yellow polka dots
swim past the eyes.
A broken sign reminding of
shallow water and submerged rocks,
falling stars and the scent of sea roses
sweetening the air,
Button mums are blooming somewhere.
The morning is golden. I open
the silverware drawer to baby spoons
and mismatched sets.
Monograms morph into memories
from a walk-up to a broad expanse of lawn;
forsythia seldom grows in window boxes.
Dreams never failed me, only expectations.
If I could pick any life, I’d pick this one.