Chronicle I

I gaze out the window, looking upon small pedals,
Trying so vigorously to bud;
The hues of violet and yellow,
Bright against winder’s last grey days.

I grab a pear from the bowl of fruit on the table–
Bruised from your touch.
So quickly it is tossed out the door,
Along with everything else I’ve come to know.

Part of myself exits the home with the mixture of apples and pears;
The only thing I can manage to carry is my tome of memory,
It’s random blank pages heavy on my back.

I do not want to forget anything of my former life,
yet while I stare at old notes and letters your signature seems foreign,
It is abstract as history.