Word Scrabble

— Pushpa MacFarlane

Words scrabble or quietly emerge
from recesses of my mind,

each bearing some message
some meaning, something
long forgotten. Some words

carry a hook to hang memories
or just hang in silence. Unspoken.
Some are buds in spring

with new beginnings.
Some emerge from a dark room
with a photographic memory

in black and white to testify,
to judge, pass verdict:
guilty as charged, or not.

Some words harvest years
worth of images compressed
into segments and pixels—

every dot cohabiting, coexisting
side by side, to create
an impressionistic painting:

Yellow-brown and rust leaves
tipped in bright red, turn gold
as they catch the sunlight.

A reflection of rainbows
in ripples, undulating waves
of nostalgia, redeeming

one last attempt to revive,
return, reverse, curl back
in time and continue,

as if there’s no tomorrow,
as if there’s only now.

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