matthew horton

the memory stands, framed, on the table, a younger me and you
together, alone consumed by trees,
selecting sticks to serve as guides, a tradition upheld;


we walk and wander lost through speaking forests and emotional paths
strengthened by stretching minds and body
forming and finding us, we move all alone


we both grew and lost us, trees of conversation extinct
we wander without walking, we never leave the room
where did we leave those things we had that one time?


here we stand, an older me and you—
mature, silence encaptures us, our tradition is locked away
again as selected sticks sit unused


after forever lasting, now we walk, lost amongst the trees,
Selected Sticks as our guides
we lose silence snaking the trees to find lost friends finally again.



2 responses »

  1. Beautiful poem Matthew. Life is like that. The sooner we learn our lessons the better…

  2. Eva says:

    Nice poem. Life does go on even with ‘Selected Sticks.’

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