Something From The Archives That Never Worked

At 27 the act of talking to your parents affirms that life moves forward
At 22 I drove past your grave by a quaker meeting house in ambler Pennsylvania. there was no snow, only fallen leaves and a wind that blew through scarves.
At 23 and 24 I forgot you.
At 21 I wrote a love poem for a dead girl on her birthday.
At 19 I cried in a memorial service in the sweat of June.
At 28 nothing makes sense to me in March.