Comment 1 of 1, added on March 11th, 2006 at 12:39 AM.
The Auburn Hills
It is so important to touch
the ghosts of memory
lost in the auburn hills
of yesterday's yesterday.
That was a place where
my aunt and uncle walked,
where my cousins and I
fought and played together.
That was a place that lives
within me, no matter where
I put my shoes or shave my face,
breathing through my every breath.
I am not much different now from
then, except older
and fatter, yet I still
hear their voices chatter.
Love in these hills is
not the color of the rose,
no matter what color
that rose is.
It is here where love is
known in its every face
yet so distant, it's a land whose
name inspires unknown visions.
I would like to touch them
once again, to see their eyes
look at what it is
that we've become,
but they have drifted
into the auburn shadows
of those distant hills that I remember,
their quiet voices softly calling
in the silent thunder of my heart.
jwtaylor1
07/07/05
AM
Jim Taylor from
United States
Copyright © 2003-2008 Gunnar Bengtsson, Poetry Connection. All Rights Reserved.
The Auburn Hills
It is so important to touch
the ghosts of memory
lost in the auburn hills
of yesterday's yesterday.
That was a place where
my aunt and uncle walked,
where my cousins and I
fought and played together.
That was a place that lives
within me, no matter where
I put my shoes or shave my face,
breathing through my every breath.
I am not much different now from
then, except older
and fatter, yet I still
hear their voices chatter.
Love in these hills is
not the color of the rose,
no matter what color
that rose is.
It is here where love is
known in its every face
yet so distant, it's a land whose
name inspires unknown visions.
I would like to touch them
once again, to see their eyes
look at what it is
that we've become,
but they have drifted
into the auburn shadows
of those distant hills that I remember,
their quiet voices softly calling
in the silent thunder of my heart.
jwtaylor1
07/07/05
AM
Jim Taylor from United States