I had the first four lines. I have them still.
The rest that follows—gone though not for good,
Beyond the reach of shot or shock or pill.
A freed canary flown into a wood,
A jewel buried deep within an Alp,
A dream dispersed at dawn by wakefulness.
Come weep with me, past hope, past care, past help.
My cache of words becoming less and less.
The text beyond recall I must reread,
That it in failing mem’ry might be saved.
Then might I harvest fruit from summer seed
To bear into dementia’s wintry cave.
And if at last there only is this one,
I’ll keep and love it dearly ‘til I’m done.
Don Niederfrank is a retired clergy person who delights in the companionship of his wife, the wit of his friends, the forgiveness of his children, and the growth of his grandchildren. He calls Port Washington, Wisconsin home and Chicago his favorite place to visit.
His writings credits include sonnets “Up Lights” in “Prospectus,” “Last Supper” in “Rue Scribe,” “Cowboys” in “Grand Little Things,” and a villanelle “Valentine” published in “The Orchards Poetry Journal.”