I dreamed I had lunch with father again,
and after the potato soup and cold radishes
sprinkled with salt, he told me secrets:
how there is warmth under a crust of snow
or how when love has gone or age has
overtaken there is no more room for crying;
that there is a time before and there is a time
after but people only recognize the in-between,
the time spent between lunch and dinner or dinner
and sleep or birth and love or life and death;
that someone will always be waiting, even
the venders at the farmer’s market, the ones
who sell yesterday’s picked peaches and plums
with all their promises of future flavor
Last edited on Wed Feb 1st, 2012 06:01 pm by timmy
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