and this time you slipped
as a raindrop
through the clouds of my forgetfulness
to fall
like the thought of a forming leaf
wearing that dress
i remember
and laughing
at the perfection of a moment
that was gone
before it could be described
and i saw you
stepping softly
barefoot
beneath the apple blossoms
and pregnant
with the tender impossibilities
of this new spring
reaching out
with tendrils of anticipation
toward an unknown father
but troubled by the wildness
of the seed
imbedded in your womb
and the memory of chaos
that lies within your ancient bones
Greg Alston is a gardener, cook, father and some other things, too.
Boulder Weekly accepts poetry and flash fiction submissions at 450 words/35 lines or fewer and accompanied by one-sentence bio of the author. Send to [email protected]
