a collection of poems by Judith Zottoli
The Memory Ball
I am stuck in the memory ball of the past.
I sit on the deck
of my failing family cottage,
one of the last vestiges
of Grampa's compound.
I hear the voices
of happy children
swimming and boating,
where we once ruled.
I walk by the barn
in need of repair,
once vibrant with
chickens, sheep, steer,
the smell of new mown
hay wafting from the loft.
I look under the pine forest
that used to be a grazing
pasture, a haying field,
a picking place of blueberries
and wild strawberries.
As I get older,
I remember the good memories.
They will never be repeated or replaced.
They pass each other in the night,
One less significant than the other.