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Projected Memory
by thomas brinson

After all my bows are taken,
when dust clings to the window pane of my soul,
perhaps then I‘ll think of one rose petal.

Its fragrance will swirl through me,
bringing with it bright memories
of youthful yearnings across the pit of time.

In sweet silence,
probably rocking with eyes closed,
a smile will caress my wrinkled lips.

I shall remember this magical time,
when in shadows laced with moonlight
we slowly kiss.

                                            Summer, 1966
                                            Cincinnati, Ohio

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