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A poem by Robin Winter

August 24, 2014

She walked many and long

in the garden of her childhood

gathering lilac in her arms

ducks eggs in her apron

and seeing angels in the snow.


She remembered her father

shaking the cherry tree

to make the blossoms fall

and skating on the icy pond.


These were her memories

recorded for others,

but for herself she kept only

red geraniums

filling her heart with their pungency.


And afterwards

heavy eyed

she slept

haunted by their spiced scent

and dreamed

of the broken flowers

staining her lost youth.


© Robin Winter

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