Assisi: An Online Journal of Arts & Letters Volume 4, Issues 1 & 2 | Page 19

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TIM MCLAFFERTY

CIRCLES
In the amber tones of mid-November
and before the rain has beaten bare the
trees, the children play beneath cobalt skies.
Chased amid pine boles on earth soft with
needles, there’s time and laughter; echoes from
behind an opaque scrim, and that was me.
A frayed thread, but holding, along which
my youth and years are braided into one.
As we share dark chocolate and black coffee
father, bed-ridden, speaks of eidolons.
Dementia, the nurse tells me. This is new.
His mind’s running free as his body breaks.
He says he’s been out in the fields all day
a boy ready to tear off, without me.

!!Assisi!!!13!