In the balance of holding onto anything
That has happened and will never happen
Again, a permanent change, a tipping point
Goes from processing that information,
Reading the whole book as it were, to being
Stuck in the pages like a wild flower plucked
From a summer meadow and pressed
Between a fold of wax paper, now dried
and no longer part of a native landscape.
Instead of transit, this vehicle parks, powerless
To seek destiny ahead because revisiting the
Past again becomes my purpose and the
Potential of forgetfulness has turned into
Following safety back instead of taking new paths.

2012 © Amanda Morris Johnson

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