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Lost Things

In this poem, my sister, Marsha, is guiding and directing me.


“Look over yonder; see the grassy hill?

It’s in there. You’ll find it in there.”

Soft air shimmers with golden sunlight.

It’s an early-summer morning. The fragrance of apple blossoms is ubiquitous

emanating from chalky rocks, from stars and planets, from creatures

who fly among the solar systems.


I stroll over to the hill. It’s close, maybe seven yards,

but it takes awhile to cross this distance. It feels like a mile--

long enough to pick up a slender branch embellished with white blossoms.


“Keep going,” you urge. “You’ll find it.”

When I reach the other side of the mound, it’s dimmer.

A cloud darkens this side. A freshly spaded, black gash

interrupts the verdant sward. The soil is still moist, redolent with life.

“Take some.”

I grasp a handful, and the bright day

inverts.


I’m in a derelict chamber lit by a single candle.

Cobwebs and dust velvet the contours of everything, even the walls.

Scraps of paper and wax patina desks and tables.

Books are scattered on rough floorboards.

In the corner, to the right of a scant, gray window

a pie safe, doors ajar, stands.


The aroma of hot apple pie embraces me.

It’s so, so sweet. Too sweet to be true.

“Taste some. It is true.

This is the place where all Lost Things are found.”

I am so drenched in sweetness, I weep an urn of honey.

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