Beth Camp Historical Fiction

Sunday, July 27, 2008


Each evening, I fix hot tea
and sit at this window.
I see pine trees in shadow against a pink sky,
a line of young aspen tremble in evening wind,
and there, a line of blue mountains fades
into gray clouds low on the horizon.

Somehow I lost you between Wednesday and Friday;
only bare lines on photographs remain.
What solace does memory bring?
I cannot remember the names
of the flowers that bloom.
I only remember you.

Note: Click on this link for more readings on this week's prompt from Sunday Scribblings writers. I was surprised by this prompt, somehow connecting it in my other blog to quilting and Obama and then, after a long walk, to loss.

1 comment:

  1. each evening tea at the window- sounds like a lovely ritual.

    Your poem stirs memories of my own.