Thursday, July 28, 2005

an empty chair
a story of when my grandparents knew me less
but still sheltered me,
the dal softening in the solar-cooker
that winter - we had one-celebration-too-many
who came, who didn't?
the green of this garden is paling now
i never go there,
i never play there,
poke around in the mud.
my mother is not tall enough now -
to dry clothes this high.
my world is fast becoming
a history of sorts, written
in commented photographs.