In my thoughts
Each time
I think about
What I’ve lost—
Friends I knew
Who went away
And where we went
On certain days…
It’s futile
Conjuring scenes
Time travelling
In my head
Scrying
Images
Beneath
The pentimento
Of dried up
Remembrances
Brush strokes
Of regret—
Pathetic
Attempts
At revising
Or erasing
All for the sake
Or revisiting
A windy day
In March
When your red mittens
Were blown
Into the lake
And precious memories
With them.
