#amwriting #poem #poetry #sketchbook nostagia

When the raven comes, when a song heard
by chance provokes
a lane in winter, or lemon cakes: words
might come that poke a memory unwoken
still.But, whose life is it upon the page,
untainted by the cloying nostalgia
that sends so many running, crying ill
willed in fear. Simple I know. But age
and children often draw me to that era
when seeing with the eyes of youth would thrill

or sour at slights and joy, like imposters.
Everything comes
from ear to that eye inside that lingers
on what could we be, had we taken turns
upon forgotten paths. It is then, we
find the mocking voice of parents, not ours,