I’ve seen my share
(was home to) bluer pastures…
seen fences (rusted wire),
barns that rose from ashes
to the stars…
I’ve lost it all
beneath the blue
Kentucky (fell one summer…)
but still I see the stains
upon my fingers…
(the smell of winter hay)
will always be,
without the need for getting
over —
Was not a hurt (awaiting)
to be healed…
a moment to be filled
with something more…
There’s no need
to carve another over this –
tis only one
Kentucky…only one
as this within my heart,
the weathered barn….
(sleeps with warm tonight)…
Wasn’t love the same
yet I’m amazed
at those (who raise the match)…
would seal the scars
with tar and bind their eyes
from looking back…
Would deem all memories
(the same)…
and deep within
an emptiness (holds the only proof)
here love was kept…
a house no longer furnished
(piano no one plays)…
Names are never uttered
lest the pain become renewed…
tis a ritual
of painting (over everything)…
til truth is nothing more
and nothing (just the same)…
Only love remains –
one Kentucky (just as blue)
moments kept apart –
restored to pasture…
(september sun)…
Stars were never less
for their shining…
never dimmed (into the black)
on which they burn…..
The bluest grass
still grows beyond the
meadows (I can see)…
and love
will never be a place
to get beyond…
Forever (both)
become much dearer
(initials carved in wood)…
poems penned to leaves
(the scent of maple)…
a key returned
the tender world (of me)….
. . .
Author’s Note: Time is an arrow, and yet (yet) some words
stay with us longer than others. I’ve likely written thousands
of things in my life, and this remains one of those most dear.
tornadoday 