Summer of '78

A poem.

Summer of '78 Rain fingers the strings,
guitar, banjo – Thunder
bisects the sky. Long
chorus of years, a refrain
of river and ocean.
Loved faces fade
to moon circles.
Children's voices
reassemble as crows.
Words disintegrate,
rushing downstream
I only remember
the smell of honeysuckle
in the dark.
Bradley R. Strahan

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