Old and unpruned, the currant bushes
produce few berries; I remember gathering
their berries, what my mother made of them
in those long gone years of fading memories.
They are older than I am, and I'm old, in
my own long autumn without harvest.
They will still be here when I am gone,
unpruned, fruitless, forgotten,
unheeding of the passing of people
and the worlds they built in their minds.
14.-15.12.2023
#Poem #Poens #Poetry #Verse
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