And We Run Like Children Into The Garden of the Forgotten

by Susan Abraham

Isn't it amazing how a fountain of images like the rush of a comet rockets from the imagination...as if they were never really buried or burrowed but were simply having us on for a lark?

And then we run like children into the garden of the forgotten and in its lost golden sand to search a toy, a book, a friend...where once we missed the tired, straggly end of a meadow below this pretty show.

Still, we hope the darkness would envelop its talons and that the bliss of the mist like a curtain graciously surrenders; in which to shoulder our tearaway affection.

"Come in, come in," it says, as you follow the echo's bow in tow. "Back now to your honeyed days and raisined up for a party stop..." And where already, our hands wait to catch the rusty, dusty knob. Then once more, will remembrances light up the sorrow of the hollow, as vast as a sea of books may look, perhaps even...as safe as a yummy tea may cook.