Memory

As I lift up my pen and begin to write,

I pause in the sun’s light,

thinking how beautiful it is,

I forget my poem ‘this’,

but I think and think and do my best,

if only I could remember ‘this’ I’d forget the rest,

but then I remember the beautiful warmth,

and know I’d never wan’t to remember a storm,

so I hold that moment one more time,

and then I’ll┬átry to think of another rhyme.

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