Memories

Memories     (by Christine Biles)

 

Empty here,

I’m scraping

the jelly jar,

but the knife

comes up clean.

I want that sugar

like a dedicated

honeybee that can’t

find a flower.

Honey, I need

some nectar.

I need a journey.

Road trip with me

so we can trip

on the road

and come out

less than clean.

I’m empty here,

and searching

for the plum

juice in my dead

Grandmother’s ice

chest, for the scent

of white pines

and the sight

of their fallen

gold needles,

for the warmth

of a cup of tea

on a chill autumn

day as my only

Memories: the air

in my jelly jar.

Empty, yet not.

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