Some verses run persistent

Some verses run persistent for so long that the Sun and the scent of grass and forget-me-nots morphed into fantasy.

And then no more than 11 past, the fog lifts and silhouettes, textures and tones are drawn from a memory so faint. But remembered.

The song of summer dinners, with fermented crushed Pia grapes, the Great Escape through the gates, Negronis at a natural history society, accidents and broken tires, cab drives, miniature  hands grasping your face and the simple joy in picking out a new ballerina.

Alas, the cloud never lifted, just ever behind. Always near.

For as long as the gaze of the heart is forward, it remains but a shadow. Without form, morphe.

Nikon F.

f1.2