It Is You

O fond remembrance,
Goes here,
With wistful images of childhood,
The lingering sun of spring
Or perhaps a warm winter fire,
A blackberry bush,
A dog,
Your mother,

Yes, you saw but did not know,
Now you know and see
Through melancholy tint,
In veiled memory,
And all your days have come to this,
This enshrined vision of a time,
A day,
Or perhaps a moment,
Goes here,
Your illuminated moment.

O long unrealized realization,
Goes here,
The simple joy,
The profound regret,
Or perhaps both,
And yet,
Something remains,
Something mysterious,
Unspoken yet large,
The lump in the throat,
The wistful tear,
Goes here,
For it is you
Who has made this poem,
All these poems you hold near,
It is you.

~ Russ Allison Loar
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