The Forgotten

Mist. Autumn. (1899) – Isaac Levitan

Stepping here
your eyes may walk away.
Your skin may blend into sky.
But parts of you will always be
here, fog clinging to color:
the soft memory of leaves
before childhood slinked away.

Some memory moves,
over there, less apparent
than shadow, in the mouth
of fog. A squirming smudge
nearing anger, but it is
already fading. Time
to walk away
from the parts that remain.

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