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
swept.
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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