too many waves have crashed against the rocks of time
knowing that the long ago should have been mine
the pleasure of slower passages with verbosity
considered blushing the cheeks of birth's harshness
tiny petals of ancient lilacs no longer grown near homes
reminders that soft amores were favored over ignoring
When I read Marcel Proust I float backward to times where I feel familiar
wistfully wishing to have been born and lived along the French countryside
perhaps to walk along side such a creative mind waiting for osmosis to work
wondering if the mind were the seduction that bore forth companionship
woven are the words penned within the fabric of depth beyond dreary
if only I could hear him speak a few of the phrases he heavily crafted
this prior week I sat by her side listening as she told me of her last little hopes
then I knew that motherhood brings no less doubts of good enoughs
if only I might read to her the overture of her demise from the perspective of grateful hearts
not lonely just wanting to be reassured that whilst alone there was someone who loved her
there was flesh and blood that cared to be present if only to hold her ancient hand
letting her pass easily comforted by the children that were hers as gifts without end
difficulties with the environment's attitude about this scar it must hold
if only I had been born during the heyday of luscious peony blossoms
when the sun's light was requested stay away during mid day from soft cream skin
long skirted girls took up sewing, some thick pages of books, tall sweated glasses of iced teas
oh the quiet coolness of the retiring parlor in the heat of a sunny day
whispers of the author wafting from the pages of the prose
alas, I was born too late
returning to the pages
hiding deep within the passages
my heart beats steady in peace
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