Then ... my father died
By Myra Lochner
And then ... my father died the retraced rivulet, which gurgled during spring my name was brought to a sudden ! HALT ! freezing in the trailing tracks of deers etched in the soft pulps of moist undergrowth ( ... now it is only the lonely owl sitting in his silence daring to recall that black winter with short but sorrowful sounds of foretelling - reflecting circled rings of twin moons painted heavily in lifeless eyes) she stepped out in the darkness of that night carrying the coat of snow like a boa draped around her shoulders: and then ... my father died. The red poinsettia at the front gate screamed in its perfection: who with unsteady hand has painted black frames of pain on white entrances? myraWith words like "retrace, recall", and the tautology "trailing tracks", "circled rings", "darkness of that night", "only the lonely", I endevour to paint a picture of the repetitive pain of memories. Written January 28th, 2002 © on Jan 27 2002 04:38 PM PST, Myra Lochner 0 • 18 • 1
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"And then ... my father died..."