a reminiscence by Anne Marie
The damp air is heavy. A chilly spring mizzle
muffles the sounds of distant dogs barking
and bright children’s voices at play in a time
when time didn’t matter.
A train whistle’s lowing gives ear to a longing
that forces a memory of white clapboard houses,
now vanished, neglected, where only dry tears
of remorse are left standing.
Why does the rain-dampened sidewalk,
uneven, imperfect, its root-raised sections
littered with maple buds carelessly scattered,
seem perfect to me?