Sonnet: Memory

“What was the name of that lost flower or face?”
I ask, as leaves drop from me like missed days.
Your interest wanes, thin patience steals its place;
And vestiges of Summer are erased.

I stumble through an anecdote to stall
On some recumbent detail, whilst you sigh:
“You told me yesterday, I do recall…”
Upon my boughs the fragile lexis dies.

So watch, indignant, then, when I am felled;
Extol the virtue of this prize you’ve lost.
For, only when an offer is withheld,
Can penitent consumers count the cost.

Thoughts, despite age, will finally come around,
And push their stubborn shoots through Winter’s ground.


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