poem

 SeptuagintThe past is a vast cemeteryOf the finished and the dead.Plots for spinster aunts.Mausoleums slotted with memoriesLike cold stone filing cabinets.Cavernous pits for all the rest,Half filled with cracked bones, locks of hairClattering piles of dulled bracelets,Scuffed shoes, unmatched, without laces,Crisply folded handwritten letters,Yellowed soft like lost books of Septuagint,Feelings you always thought would last forever. Even my love for you Had its own assigned grave.Names and dates deeply carved.But we are here, the two of us, alone,Again, the weather unseasonably warm,Both bearing bundles of vibrant flowersTo set beside its old gray headstone.12/14/21

Source: Buckeye Surgeon - December 14, 2021 Category: Surgery Authors: Jeffrey Parks MD FACS Source Type: blogs