Nostalgia

I can crack the hard, impenetrable stone;
I open my eyes and I take a look.
"Crack" is fun in gaelic-speak
But this is not fun, I think.
This is neurosis, like peeling the scab
Off a sore, opening the wound
And letting the blood, the very life flow out.

Seeing things, ghosts in the shadows,
Feelings are running wild, peeling the skin
Back away from the muscle
Seeing the mechanics of what moves me.

This is such fun on a drowsy day:
Opening scrapbooks and
Looking at the ambered photographs,
Seeing the past, remembering.

What could have been....

"Stop that!"

Yes, dear.