Saturday, July 26, 2008


Tell me a story, you say,
but it’s the smell of cinders
in your hair that brings
memory rushing back now

a wall of story formless
and without words.

When scent and image collide, what is there
but an animal, feral, standing frozen
silent and strange at the top of the hill?
Remember the spark
of fear as reality
broke into daydream.

We quietly receded, humbled, even
apologetic for having intruded;

but later, because it didn’t belong,
and its edges were growing fuzzy
already like the skin of a peach, its
tone washed sepia,

we discreetly filed the moment
as dream.

Rachel Westfall
July 26, 2008

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