~BARRY BALLARD~

AUTUMN

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Writing it down years later has to be
enough, even though something is wanting,
something reaching from the memory of need
and affection.  I see my father tromping
through the thick foliage or standing amongst
the trees, with the forest floor woven year
after year below our feet.  I see us come
together with what I held inside (near

enough to understand that I still hold it
in some odd way, rewound and protected).
And I think he sees the same child, or at least
for a moment before he realizes
this is "now" and that what we expected
has changed—for as far as we can reach.
 
 

© by Barry Ballard