Birthday November 11, 2004


Born into memory;
late autumn brings a dryness like crackers left,
stale breakfast flakes,
tatooed into concrete are the shadows of maple.
Bleeding into pavement,
delicate,
tenacious,
skeletons refusing to fade- like the night time flashes of cannon and grenade.
Tracer bullets and birthday candles;
From whence come these tears?
Shadows of a different genre swirl with giddy abandon;
Each leaf has a name, an imprint.
Leaves walking.
Leaves running into battle.
Piles of leaves left to compost as unmarked graves.
“What must I remember?” a small voice says to the leaves.
To the maple leaves.
Born out of time.
Oceans of visceral pain erupt and gush forth from eyes that have not seen-
the Unspeakable Horror.
But memory lives on- m’dor l’dor; the piercing whine of the highland pipes- the drums;
All threads weaving a tapestry that criss-crosses in randomly understood order.
I did not want birthday candles.
Not that year.

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