barefoot in the yard

i
adore cemeteries though
seldom speak
of them outside of metaphors

or
trying to preserve the features
of her memory
in a country house
delicates on the laundryline
cat
licking songbird from its paws
belly sun warmed
in the grass

attic full of empty boxes stuffed
with forgetting, do you imagine
as i do
she humms to herself
a thing like a rhyme
remembered
barefoot
in the yard

between the clothespegs
there
in all the textures of
an instant

without fading

© Emerys Watchel, 2018 All rights reserved.

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