Long ago, in elegant poverty, Love caught us there. We were perfectly placed among wild flowers and filth. Some now gone forth beyond us they flew by, easily holding us frozen- like a picture in an old-fashioned frame, or a magazine. Where we stay laughing and young, forever. No rotten past, just a rumitizing hypmottize
But when that page is turned, the next shot shows that same couple posed and more polished version of the other time; I can’t remember that sight. But it’s certainly insistent and said to be right. And it might be. Then those same people, seen when much older, comfortable around the oddly impressively set together by some one’s good ideas, the way a good restful reason should be. The same people, later,… among the same sort of things, thrown like jacks from the hand, here and there. But the sardonic decor, somehow perfect but which will become later a country standard unto it’s own intrusive and oddly disdained, backkdrop for music. New, starting from that piano–I can’t work it. 50% probablity of half as much unlike what surrounded them when they were in a family before, as if they were changing, as the days passed they changed infront of a backdrop.
When they were young and constantly in motion, though both in close proximiy to friendship it wasn’t to be, There is that unannswered question still there as they continue to share that spaceinnthe gaps in the picture. They are both carefully holding hot-house roses, each rose perfect, each one young and painfully colored. I remembered these roses held no smell, and when touched, most, if not all the petals dropped to the floor,-in an artful display. Thouugh outwardly projecting a impervious emotional barrier, to seperate these people here froming seeming too pround and assured. They were realy there the next time, but some how things come out in a slow mo. view of walking down stairs. First when I was 25, then now when I am 60 years old, some things remain, though somewhat disconnected; Oddly appearing but much more dignified — at least they were that. Maybe no longer the beautys time stole from us, we continue, These same lovers, so different in so many ways and years from now, when the bills are all paid and their souvenirs neatly placed on polished glass shelves, opened graves, needing weekly dusting, remain posed,
Still. It all fits like so many leaves on a tree in the shade. A welcoming comfort we offer each other, together, suspended, sustained. Then, we will stop and brush off these extra few days–caked on like dirt–. In a haze; we, in our separate ways. In amazement, I remember two youg, too young lovers with the dirt swept away. Slowly fading as they begain falling bac, into that particular dust that smelled like old roses.
Caroline Abbitt Sauer (1998/2007)