At my age
every day
of the year
is an anniversary
of something
or other, but
mostly I no longer
remember of what.
Just as well,
in many cases,
sad loss in others,
but I don’t
get to decide
which will come
back to me
with the sound
of wind in the
chimney, the taste
of a cake, the smell
of wood smoke,
the light of
a full moon,
the touch of silk.
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