Peace Corps Kyrgyzstan

Wednesday, August 03, 2005


a breeze feathers down
tickling the leaves of the apple tree

Sprites of sunlight flutter past its canopy
through the dust glazed window
dappling my walls in a drunken dance

I lay watching
reminded of the flames of a fire
or the roil of a river's water

Everything around me is changing.

a wind stirs the leaves from silence
I listen to their muted applause
It is August
The sun sleeps longer

The leaves are slowly drying
Their edges curl underneath
like a poster rolled too long in a tube
Soon all purpose will abandon them
They will wither and fall and
crackle under my languid stride

I will miss them too late.

Another year passes
shapeless in the mind
and my memories melt
like bits of ice on an April pond
or merge as shadows
into the darkness of a dying day

During this Afternoon of my life
I write so that I may forgive my self

Everything will be forgotten.


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