A Certain Age

A Certain Age short poem

Photo by desmænok

If I forget spring,
bruise my face with grass
to meld with soil
in prescience of later ritual.

If I forget summer,
drip on my tongue
the blood of fresh berries,
and the insolent taste of mint.

If I forget autumn,
immerse me in mums,
lift me to the highest stadium row
so I may feel the braille of wild geese.

If I forget winter,
let me drink the giggles
of snow angel children
and untangle the Christmas light cords.

If I forget to live,
burn me
and cast my ashes
to the winds of four seasons.

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1 Comment on "A Certain Age"

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@Robert_Carton, nice line “insolent taste of mint” may stand out for remembering. Quite whimsical until before the last line of morbidity. A nice read.

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