Evanescent

We gathered in common, familiar places.

I could give them a face, a name, or a story

if that writes pages of a memoir or makes a poem.

I could mention the fire and rain of our years.

Truth be told, many of them have passed. Like me,

the ones living are slowly dying of something,

seldom calling or sending messages to each other. 

I say I understand and move on to another day,

meeting, greeting, and talking to people

who can never make the ripples that innocence

made of pebbles skipping across muddy ponds, 

boys creating moments wildly in the crosswalks 

of meandering paths, when we gave no thought 

to memories that would suddenly vanish.

Originally published in MockingHeart Review