Anniversaries by KimB

There is the day I was born

and the day I will die.

There are the clothes I have worn,

The hair that was shorn,

and the tears of goodbye.



In bins and bags,

the scent of wear,

the clothes, now rags,

with maker's tags,

the remains of care.



There is a goal.

The waves of pain,

a hidden shoal,

revealed to show,

where tears remain.



Caccitori.

A strifeful life,

Omlette glory.

Meatloaf stories.

cut of kindness' knife.



The day we met,

and how we laughed.

The times we wept.

The fun we kept,

which swept our path.



Half of two.

The morning sun,

The day renewed,

Like the morning dew.

Half in his course the Ram did run.



The flowers red bloom.

The soil tilled.

The yellow ones soon.

A color monsoon.

Martinis chilled.



Summer sweat.

The game's in play,

The racquet swept,

the ball in net.

The score decides a lunch to pay.



Kisses fine

and Lemon pies,

a Saint-Émilion wine,

bouquet refined,

made starry-eyes.



Cold dogs nose-es;

The woman in blue.

Frozen toes-es;

awakward poses.

Wind captured hues.



The bags are full, the bins have gone.

The closet bare.

Sorrow's thorns

of tears, still torn.

And dusty shelves, do not care.



KimB 2023