Moments of the past do not last

kicked into the long grass

a warm early-summer’s day

golden petals reflecting sun.

Then stormy-autumn come

later flurries of snow melted

by body heat.

Frozen snow comes and goes

frosting tumbling-heaps of red, gold, brown

leaves crisp-crackle underfoot

old ghosts lose their threads

again.

Pot-heads fragile, thin, with thin-like skin

echo the savage-silent-dead

beat up memories-lost, storm-tossed.

Inside dust-motes float,

gossamer webs twist vision

raindrops glitter in the rain.

Words thought, but never said,

misrule-misled, instead.

In the very eye of the storm

a moment of calm,

where old-ghosts finally-fled

to the very heart of the storm

chapped, red-raw hands

from working the fields,

storm-sent, soil-scented wind

blows me back to kingdom-come,

to listen again,

to lost-time’s beating drum.