A Poem in Retrospect: Ars Poetica

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Like coming home again,
Where everything is covered by the golden gloss of memory.
The“remember when's” and “only if's”.
It is sweetly familiar,
Like Mother's pungent perfume on Sundays
Or the feel of the crisp, cool grass on bare feet
In the fire-red evening of summer.


Rhythms of music echoing through the mind,
Lullabies used to console through lonely nights
When a silk blanket and wet thumb were not enough.
The path familiar, same curves and bends.
Timeless, picturesque.


But, as you settle back in,
Kick off your gritty, worn shoes,
And prop your feet up for another look around,
The pretenses painted by first impressions
Begin to fade away.


The cradles and toy chests have been removed,
And the refrigerator no longer proudly displays the colors of youth.
Yet the rooms are fuller than at first glance;
Sophistication has moved in,
Obvious through fine wine racks, catalogs of Better Living,
And a sleek grand piano.


Like the cherry grandfather clock that ticks in the corner,
Marking a passage from simple mindedness
To elevated insights.

Coming home again,
Where a backward glance
Reveals more than the shades of innocence allowed.





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