It's Still Life

Unimportant Strangers

I was all eyes and hands back then, each
moment rosy smiles or a quick descent
into dusty tears. Five years old. Such is
the way of small hands, little limbs, and as

I chased the summer, graceful
as butterflies I chased, as
the dust rising underfoot, I saw the sky as a
vein of blue, an azure sinking
in the sun. Sinking as a ship,

that sun shone a dreamy stone, but
distant as a thousand years. Less
a treasure I’d never seen, blue tragic
into a lost light, falling somehow –

like a penny from a pocket, discarded because
no one saw its value. These
small lost tokens, memories as they are,
forgotten as unimportant strangers.

The last word of each line is taken from a poem by Rigoberto Gonzalez “The Strangers Who Find Me in the Woods”. Written for dVerse Poets, poetic form: Golden Shovel