August dribbles - 11


Sharp-edged
Taste copper blood in coppered leaves
And feel the grit of bones ground down to dust.

They ask why scent brings back such memories
It must                                            
While silken rose-petals
Release their sun-fed rain.                   

This pain                                            
These memories taste bad
Opens her eyes, forgets, remembers, he 
Says “Come home Mom.”

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