Forgetfulness

Have you ever gone through some of your old writing and stumbled across a file that absolutely rings no bells? I just did. I sat there for ten minutes asking myself, "When the hell did I write this?" I still don't know.

The title of the poem in question seems so oddly specific, and yet I don't remember it at all. I've had this happen before, but usually I finally have an "Aha!" moment and realize it was something I scribbled down during an adolescent writing phase, promptly forgot about, retyped years later, and forgot once more. This is different though. It feels like something I would have written around 2010.

Here it is for your perusal, amusement, and judgment if you wish.

Don’t Cry, Violet

Spring faces push up, burgeoning,
bursting into common air;
while fingers are petals and patinas and wishes,
the wind floats by without notice
and scrubs the patina away.
If fingers are petals and patinas, our hands
Are withered
And whittled
And wrung.
Hate blows the pollen of despair across our faces;
faces fade and fester in the winter of the soul
and bury tomorrow under a silt of woe.
It comes up yesterday fresh and young;
fingers stretching to the sun.