The artist in me remembers
brown eyes in a tanned face
framed around with auburn curls.
But, I couldn’t paint you now.
The musician remembers rhythm,
snatches of melody, from songs
you sang – to which we danced –
but not the lyrics, not the words.
The wanderer remembers woodlands.
We walked among tall, green trees.
A creek wound through low hills—
in some park – near some town.
So much I do remember,
but to my shame –
today, for the life of me
I can’t recall your name.
Previously published in Poems of the World
Eleanor Michael has published poetry and short stories in a variety of venues.