An Old Man Remembers the Beautiful Girls of his Youth
By Steve Griffin
V ague as childhood memories only known through tales,
Elusive as the half-remembered dream,
Illusory as shimmering colors that light reflects through water spray,
The phantasmagoric train of beautiful young girls from his past startle
the old man’s mind.
They are not a static gallery of still-life faces and bodies, but rather
flashes of color, distorted images that flow, mingle, dissipate,
sounds that fade and echo, touches that linger less than a breath
of wind on barely ruffled water.
Brown legs that scissor in sunlit dance, knees that dimple as skirts
slide up thighs as tawny and supple as young lionesses, lips seem
to touch his so subtly their breath would not disturb a dandelion,
Yet they dagger him with myriad memories of kisses of all flavors
and all fervors.
Eyes green, blue, black, brown, gold flecked, hair swinging and swaying
in liquid rhapsodies, red-gold-ebony, all separate, but one, as softly
plucked strings of a harp vibrating together.
His poor heart questions.
Did these old eyes ever see such sights?
Did these old ears ever hear such melodies?
Did these old lips ever taste such ripeness?
Or is this just a wishful delusion of aging clay,
trying vainly to deny the grave?
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