the storm moves in slowly
building strength as it gathers
rain becomes steady
as he moves out into its wet features
its wind break upon him with its warm intent
his thoughts are clear with the seeing
its a scattering of cherished memories
on the hard surface
that catches the edge of her eye
and lets her pause in thought
and mid-stride
to let her mind wander over
bedraggled and rain-soaked figure

inside that scattering
of memory
is a kaleidoscope of images
patched together with the thin thread
of the craftsman
he labors in the night
a room lit only by the one small lamp
casting huge shadows into the background
the light shifts and the pattern changes
the night reveals the images are culled from
the small corners of a dutch master
its cracked and blackened surface eight hundred years old
the rubbing from a new england tombstone
a child who passed in the winter of 1709
her eyes feast on the loam colors
and rich sequence
giving into the intrigue of long lost faces
people whose lives were so different from the mundane like her own

her bone features an uncertain veil
like a paper thin skein wetly attached to the
dark surface of her mind
illustration painted in garish light
he runs all night
and he barks like a dog
interpret his mouth actions
with abacus
and slide rule
cause you cannot measure the madness
with anything less than absolute numbers
the dutch painting is as much of a tombstone
as my long goodbye
i drew in the sand at her feet