january is…forever. how can i
stay in today when the future collides with itself?
a lifetime of flickering images—
the cove from the dining room window in my old house where future meets past;
how green and spongy the moss was at Cobscook Bay last summer when we hiked as far east as we could without falling into the sea;
twinkling white lights on the mantle now safely packed away; the waxy dregs of a balsam candle;
my father’s confusion over the day, the year, his age—
all of this already forgotten. only the mist of a future memory remains.
© amie mcg. 2022