Bruises And Bluemarks

Alive, in the crisp breeze
in Indian Summer,
I seal with a haunted kiss
the beauty of October's
fields and streams,
awed by changes in the weather,
a finger to the wind.

The abundant images of
true colors like a
rainbow of dreams,
have me pausing to catch my
breath,
existing in a world of
sequestered nature to the
world of the butterfy.

What I have, too,
are the bruises and bluemarks
noticed on a recent photo
ripped from the pages of my memory.

The jaded ghost of my grandmother
comes to me,
stern and vividly.
Her house is now a mansion in ruins,
a few towns north.
I long to be by her bedside
looking out the window to see
the weeping willow tree
under which I sat through so many
precious days of play, finding
lady bugs crawling up the bark.

Her comfort was as good as gold.
I roll back to the
evenings of stories she would
tell me of unique proportion,
as grand as being dressed up
in the Easter Parade.