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Grey Sparrow Journal

Issue 30, July 31, 2017
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The Temperature of Memory

              

Winter inches across the landscape a half-mile out from the west,

moaning across the last of Autumn's cowering tulips and mums;

 

their heads barely visible under the mist-roll. As any winter will,

she keeps time. Cloud-thin echoes from trellis and tray-bed,

 

gangs of goldenrod whistled away seed urgent melancholy;

the ache of impending hush squeezing between the heartbeats. Too

 

early tonight, chill wets wood and loam, its fingers pressing into

the cracks and fissures. Tomorrow, fir-tops will shine like pearls,

 

quiver beneath their arctic rooms. First bloom-burst of next Spring

will wash and bleach, press and smooth; not memory, home.

 

How quickly Spring abandons us; as fickle as we, ill-timed

and impotent of promise all things return. Eventually.

 

—A.M. Gwynn