Photo by Skitterphoto from Pexels, for The Sunday Muse Prompt #48.

***
Maybe it was the slant
of the light streaming in,
slicing through, as it were,
the haze of yester-year’s detritus;
the half-drawn blind like a mind
stretched thin between leaving
and returning, a face half-turned
towards the memory of lost songs
hovering just beyond the reach
of a quivering tongue, and this
present brooding.
Maybe this is what the
burden of life is. To carry,
buried deep within one’s heart,
the remains of the songs
of one’s youth; until
in a season of re-memory,
they all come back.