catching time

---

a bale of hay. 

two pairs of feet,

each one small 

enough to fit in a palm. 

time blushes 

in that childhood photo,

old. though it

swoons into

orange, red, and gold, where 

a pocket of the 90s stays, 

flirting

with the millennium and his

sepia shades. 

rich.

deep, as milk and honey seep 

through coffee. 

two blonde heads. 

a grandad we both

miss - holds us up on that 

bale of hay; my baby hands

scrunched like paper; 

sister’s arms

stretched like an X 

on a map of the past, 

trying to catch time.