by Susan Abraham

Isn't it amazing how a fountain of images like the rush of a comet suddenly rockets from the bottom of the imagination...as if they were never buried or burrowed but were 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 to your honeyed days and all raisin-ed 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.

Image credit to: Karen Whimsy's public domain images