Wednesday, January 5, 2011

at present

at present
this is what i recall:

strikingly radiant and alive, a bantam pair,
breathing-in highland air laden with promise
and thoroughly doused with steadfast trust

that, brilliant futures were more than a dream
but exceedingly probable— almost a must;
back then, my love, whilst blissfully bathed

by an equatorial sun, buoyant with vim—
vernal vigor and forever braided with more
that affection; in that winsome couryard

and playgrouds, for instance, lives were embraced
with freshness and thoughts: in topiary form,
painted pathways without brier nor thorn,

were foremost, lushest byways of hope—
sanguine visions of confluences in days
yet to unfold; that was then, my love,

and all i can recall,
at present.


Wine and Words said...

Mmmm. Beautiful. Will memory serve well or be well served? The pain morphs into lessons and to remember the learning more than the pain. The joy becomes the aura we carry like colored mist.

Noxalio said...

memory, that tricky
bastard ... ha!
btw, Annie, i love
the word aura,
as you might guess,
and colored mist
is so ... erm ...