Poem 20151108

the sky perfect blue
and the air clean
all of it crisp like an apple

like a photograph
the old kind stuck in an album
with vibrant color
and time-curled edges

like a childhood memory that surfaces
replacing the current scenery
insistent and now

–waking up early on a holiday break
tearing out of the house
into a morning the slices through your coat
with no destination in mind–

that apple-crisp air
strikes my face
less a slap than a reminder
and i turn and find the sweet spot
where the sun rests
between my shoulderblades

and i am warm and cold
at the same time
–here and there
–now and then

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