Objects in mirror . . .


                                        Look like the playthings of my past

                                        As they stand a little smaller than I recall

                                        They're the candles that left their scars

                                        When they branded me their soft memory

                                        They became hastily written notes on hand

                                        And long battered clothes I threw away

                                        That haunted my flourishing faltering ways

                                        Every one a sweet and long forgotten drop

                                        Swallowed in a stubborn summer fade

                                        I waited for the chance to come and go

                                        So I could watch each and every one erase

                                        But now I find my waving good-byes


                                                     ­                                                              . . . Are closer than they appear