Memories Collected in a Vase of Flowers
by Michael Escoubas

I see them all, my parents, aunts and uncles,
here, in this place, robust figures filling the room.
They sit in chairs, lean forward, ladies cupping
the roses in soft hands, praising their colors
and fragrances. Men, damp with the sweat of work,
slightly out-of-place in this genteel atmosphere.
Though none remain, their presence is felt in objects:
treasures in teapots, plates and pitchers once handled
by them. I recall the setting and the times
of my youth, when the simplest things sufficed.

These same things become the objects of my art.
My candle blazes with memories made real
by nothing more than petals in a glass vase,
radiating power and life from pen to page.


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