Friday, March 8th: A poem story

A Story

The moment
was always a poem
Even if the meaning is not
clear.

The first snow...
Why do I circle
Around the memory
20 years gone
Of a boy with
Curly hair?

The street muffled--
Snowflakes--
Like lush eyelashes
Hiding in the curls.

The homeless woman
Expression hard as stones
Saying, “You’re beautiful!”
To the boy and
His snowy curls.

Why does it matter
That it was a big dark city
Sleeping and empty in the
First snowfall?

That outside of the bar’s bright world--
Wood floors and slick glow--
We stood still in a
Hushed street?

What does it matter
That luscious snowflakes hid
In the curls of a head that is
Probably bald, a boy
Who is a man
That I no longer even know?

A thought: it matters
As all beautiful
Memories that get
Lodged in the mind’s
holey net like
A diamond in decaying leaves.