The Innocent Historian
I am a poor historian. Seasons and years merge.
Emotions, fleeting in the moment,
are more so in the telling. Words flow
with a mind of their own, dandelion seeds
in a summer storm, Color in darkness.
Darkness in a summer garden.
Nothing seems pure any more,
your innocence lost and searched for ever since.
About this poem
Life has too many layers to tell simple truths. Everything is colored by everything. And most people, like me, have lived several lives in their lifetime. To expect one not to influence the other is, as much as I wish it sometimes, impractical and unlikely.
I was an innocent adult for way longer than most people get away with. I miss that sometimes.
From those Sunday philosophic thoughts, this poem.
The picture is of the quarry across the street from my house.