Pot-bellied, am I: misshapen by age and gravity – more rot than plump ripe pear – still, a vessel for love – grandmotherly vase.
My memory of you – distorted by childish exuberance – distant and disinterested Translated vacant eyes through the lens of my needs child that I
Laughter, like sunshine, cleared the air, painted our hearts verdant love renewed. (A haiku borrow from Twitter. Visit me @Vjknutson. Image from personal collection.)
She’s not in the kitchen presiding over preparations, thriving amidst the chatter, tutting away thieving fingers. She’s not in the classroom, mastering subjects, upholding order,
Is this life-play pre-staged – reservations made in childhood when fun constituted priority, and drama thrived, unchecked by adults, bemoaning authority, too self-absorbed to conceive
Idleness fills his hours as if time knows no limits I devour moments, afraid tomorrow will forget me we see-saw between treacherous righteousness and fusty