The Memory of Yellow

The season of color is short
and soon these flowers will be no more
than dry stalks, brittle and brown,

So let people laugh.
Let them call me childish
in the joy I find in each splash of color,
each whiff of perfume,

for I am old enough to know
each day might be my last
and these are the visions I want to take with me
to heaven:

Color,
Fragrance.
Music.
A tender touch.
Moments of perfection,
precious as the perfect note
hanging in the air as the music ends.

About this poem

Inspired by the young lives cut short yesterday in the WBDJ killings. I tend to savor the small things more than most. But a day like yesterday reminds me why.

Tom