(Today's photo is a worm's eye view of some hyacinths which caught my attention while I was walking in Lincoln Park ...)
Memory is such a part of poetry - whether of something seen or envisioned, whether long ago or just moments earlier. Memory plays its role.
In this instance, the memory was implanted so long ago I don't know exactly where or when I saw the sofa sitting on that front porch. It had to have been in my childhood, which would have placed it somewhere in a small town in Southern Illinois.
I remember how the light played across it, how I wondered what its story was, why it was sitting on that porch, neglected, but not really abandoned.
That image stayed with me, followed me, all these years until, finally, I put it to paper and, in doing that, gave it a life of its own. Perhaps it will now stir some memories for someone else, this tattered old sofa "where so many secrets still lie ... "
Deep-purple couch sitting alone
in the darkness of the front porch,
lamplight threading a cracked
windowpane, settling like dust
across your back, cushions askew,
butt-sprung, cold, where suitors sat
enduring eternity, waiting, waiting
for that moment that never came,
where others, home from the wars,
found prickly refuge in your embrace,
slept nights away, bone-weary, safe,
where the sick found solace,
baby first slept, generations of cats
yawned, stretched, sank regal claws,
where so many secrets still lie
like lost coins, just beyond reach.
(originally published in Potpourri)
Today's word: lamplight