The Search by Amy Barry

She walks
under summer foliage.
White hair,
soft as the clouds.
Her features caught
in time’s net of wrinkles.
Warm remembrance
Memories roam,
in sunlight —
a blue tit logged
all it saw.

Her search,
real or unreal is not known.

In the passing breeze,
rimmed with tears,
eloquent with pain,
perhaps, it is here-
in the thick softness
of greens,
flowers and earth,
like the end of a warm     dream —
in the garden that breathes,
she wishes to enter
and disappear.


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