by James W. Catt
A memory, an impression like a stamp on my infant brain
of curtains floating on a breeze.
Fingers of sunlight move across the rug of red and gold leaving an empty space
I sit alone there, against a blank wall of a blank room.
My body consumed by it's blankness, seeing only red and gold on a vast plain across the horizon of my eyes.
It fills my mind with a throbbing energy,
those golden fingers, the pulse of the world.
A loss, so complete in its self, a loss that could only be felt
by a child,
the fingers retreat out of the window to mingle there among the sunlit flakes
I am left alone among the blankness, red and gold have faded in to an empty
Last updated April 26, 2017