ETTA, 1971

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ETTA, 1971

It was you who once said that you felt like an open flower.

When I remembered your remark,
I thought it strange that it should come to mind,
Considering how many of the names of good friends
From those past times I now have already forgotten.

I can still envision us walking off into the field,
And me leaning up against the side of the tall Sycamore,
While we talked those nights during our one summer together.

The last time I saw you was nearly a decade ago.

 

There are doors which I have shut forever.
Books in my library I shall never reopen.
Mirrors which will not reflect my image ever again.