Photos along a soft-centred wall
like assorted chocolates
with prized centres,
tiny miniatures--
full portraits
the young army major, for one,
in battle fatigues come full family regalia.
Mounting the staircase
(tearing back the chocolate paper)
shroud hand on the railing,
pressuring the cherry liquid
into oozing burst of memory,
the nectarine orange of a summer's day.
Swing & garden loom into view,
the mind plays thoughtscapes,
a tag ensemble, along the wall.
Old colours (or lack of them) abound--
the antiquated dress & hairdos
of grandparents that speak lavishly,
into taste buds, across the fallen years.
Ivy & ivory fan, kitten on a rocker,
cradled baby that amounts to me,
the sun coming home to roost on this plaintiff, pleading
wall.
Passage of thought
into this chocolate box--
the lid off stern memory
prying forth a directory of
mouth-watering choice,
or so the advertisers' claim.
Yet do we ever thought
over what we taut (in our heads)
we are? My dad in Kenya (a time and age
from this perspective like the peanut brittle)
or grandfather, about eight, from the dreamy,
dark cream & nougat reaches of layered black space
that speaks the aeons ago--
his manner and distance a smoky haze
from the twilight "special occasion"
Black Magic chocolate box.