A Prelude to Poetry

AND SO IT came to pass that on the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month, he stuffed his travel case with everything he needed, reminding himself to travel light.  He carefully closed the door of his room; just enough to hear the latch click into place, and that was it, the journey had begun.

At the end of the hallway where shafts of late morning sunlight seeped through the shutters, his eyes began the tedious task of recognition – the pewter walls that breathed the elements of possession, the wide divan windows that opened to storied gardens and moss-covered fences, the withering ennui of an empty living room.  Potpourri thoughts and caffeol smiles. After all this time, the house still exuded feminine touch.

On the oaken coffee table laid a pile of photographs.  He checked his watch. Certainly there’s time for this.  He sat then sifted through the pictures before realizing he made a grave mistake.  Recovery was but within arms reach and yet things happen – a name, a word, an old remainder from the past – then he came barreling back to the place where he started, confused, dreaming about the miniature steps that will lead him outside the door once more.

He put the photographs back on the table.  He sat there for a few more minutes, hand cupped under his chin, lost within the tangled beginnings of a poem.

(for all that’s lost and found)

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