The Magic of Memory

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In competition

Are these lovely thoughts a memory,
or just thoughts posing as one?
Memory is perhaps a traitor,
but my age, it is a kindly one
when it brings a summer afternoon,
moments of sixty years ago:
my brother and I emerged from the movies,
blinking as we re-entered that sunny day.

We headed for home, but with careful haste,
lingering along shop windows and then lawns:
dutiful, no doubt, but in no hurry.
Waiting at home was trash to take out,
orders to take a bath and put on clean clothes,
but for now, we could talk about cowboys,
our favorite baseball players,
or castles, knights and other fancies.

To revisit a time when time meant nothing,
because there seemed so much of it,
to return briefly to a happy day
swelled by memory’s careless generosity--
for such a gift, there is only gratitude:
veracity is a noble thing, to be prized,
but thankfully, we do not live under oath,
and sometimes, verisimilitude will suffice.

In competition


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