The back steps in a photograph
hold memories in each wooden plank.
I feel the vibrations of a hundred yesterdays
climb nearly forgotten to reach
a battered screen door where hands
opened and closed years of temporary
with the emphatic hope of escape.
Sitting in the future I listen
to ghosts roaming rooms
I can’t enter and sing
a survival song to the little girl
who still carries the pain of silence.
Quietly I speak,
“I made it to the end of dust.
You are free to go where
the wind doesn’t carry tears.”
Smiling, I look up at the stars
to let imagination watch
the child dancing on a wish.
Comments
thanks for dropping in to read mine
much love...
the wind doesn’t carry tears.
That's what we desire most That one should try to avoid occasions that might bring tears of sadness. Free to roam yes, but must be careful. Great lines Susie!
Hank
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