on Sunday afternoon when the week’s memories
retreat into the cave of my past
I push a boulder over the entrance
and rarely roll that rock out of the way to explore
little desire to remember what’s gone and buried
why squint in the darkness to recall a scene
that’s now just a movie on the cavern’s wall?
and yet there’s sadness for what will never return
enough to stare out the window at one tree’s long shadow
its own history slow to grow
with the night ahead
ready to swallow it whole
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