Margins
The margins of memoryhold encapsulated moments.
Freeze dried morsels
to be digested when
the time is ripe.
In the clasp of two hands
a message is encoded
in the palm
in the blood
in the nerves
in the heart.
Messages set in the margins
connected by a
thin
blood-red
line.
May He bless you and keep you in the Palm of His hand.
ReplyDeleteAin't but three things in this old World worth a solitary dime,
Deleteand that's old dogs and childen and watermelon wine.
The interplay of sound and image reminds me of Kandinsky's little book Klange (Sounds), which he did in Zurich, 1912, at the beginning of Dada/Expressionism. Deep correspondences between the two.
ReplyDeleteThank you for the wonder-laden blog!
Especially on this cold damp Monday, your poem cuts through the fog with clarity, giving words to a place that I feel and know.
ReplyDelete