of Memory amid angst
that day
we stopped at the rock shop
your hand brushed mine
walking past the agates while
a rusty gramophone cried
tinny sounds of Louis Prima
until you smiled, red-cheeked,
placed your hand in mine
and twirled past arrowheads,
polished pebbles, fossils of
things we never knew existed,
stony evidence of past lives
escaped
2 thoughts on "of Memory amid angst"
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Delightfully entertaining
I love this. I think I was there at the rock shop,