04-23-2015, 07:13 AM
Slightly Soiled
I was gone like the golden leaves
of autumn, a pram racing
down the hill. There is forgetfulness
in being lost, and in being found.
A stranger surfaces in the pond,
a reflection ripples, and I cannot see
my father’s nose, or my mother’s smile,
or I do see them, but they are lost
to me like the wisp of a dream,
like the flute of the wind.
I am these costumes I wear.
I am this day, forever—
nothing more.
I was gone like the golden leaves
of autumn, a pram racing
down the hill. There is forgetfulness
in being lost, and in being found.
A stranger surfaces in the pond,
a reflection ripples, and I cannot see
my father’s nose, or my mother’s smile,
or I do see them, but they are lost
to me like the wisp of a dream,
like the flute of the wind.
I am these costumes I wear.
I am this day, forever—
nothing more.
The secret of poetry is cruelty.--Jon Anderson