Petrouchka Alexieva

The Trees Will Not Remember

Photo credit : https://www.facebook.com/photo/?fbid=

3627968870756872&set=gm…

 

At the end of September,

the trees will not remember

the whispering song of the summer breeze,

the melodies of the nearby creeks,

the joyful dances of hard-working bees,

the crickets’ trills on the bloomy meadows

and the lullabies of the blueberry skies.

 

At the end of September

the memories will be erased

when the pinwheels of colored leaves

patch a quilt on the napping ground

and calm down the earth

for deep winter sleep.

 

At the end of September,

the birds will take away on their wings

all the memories leaving lonely nests

high on the naked branches above.

 

On the end, what is left

will be washed by the rain

reaching deep to the hidden roots.

But for now, the trees enjoy all of these.

 

Memories in Sepia Tones

Stepping back in the past,

my mom is looking at her old photograph:

she sits on the blossoming meadow

with elegant skirt spread in a circle,

holding bouquet of wild flowers.

 

Puffy clouds shower

a golden light from above.

A warm amber sunbeams dance on her face.

Mom glows in soft brown hues

-        timeless elegance captured her youth.

 

The old sepia photograph

transferred my mom to her precious time.

Nostalgic resonance

painted shadows in her eyes.

Holding her breath, mom said

“The youth is once. Remember that.”

 

The Memory of Love is Short

 

Photo credit: Public domain files at Picasa / Flickr

 

One night stand.

The memory of love is shor

- only until the morning.

The miracle is over.

I understand.

 

And then, a crazy run

starts the day on these

crowded intersections

loaded with dreams,

full of illusions…

 

The sparkle is already gone,

melted in the morning noise.

I don’t like to keep you involved.

… Better, remembering nothing.

The memory of love is short.

 

We both understand

the cohort of one night stand.