Jan G. Otterstrom F.

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Past moments lay captive
in a cemetery of memory
each bound in some shroud
of sense or object, bundles
of dead hours sealed, until
something like a cabinís door
springs slap shut, rushing
river waters echo through
aspen and pine; my young
father appears to guide me
his child, across a fallen log.

c) Jan G. Otterstrom F. December 13, 2013