Primitive
They’ll never guess.
The small hand-forged
French horn belt buckle,
was more than an
amusing, trinket.
Perhaps one day my
great, great granddaughter
will notice a teak box
stowed away in her
grandmother’s linen
closet, discover
the fine, rough treasure, and
wonder.
For 35 years I’ve
wanted to give it back-
this memento of
naïve passion,
pure heartbreak,
youthful illusion,
but I keep it tucked away
to remind me
of those things
and you.
I may
be the only one who
remembers its ease
of unclasp, the urgency
of soft leather
worn corduroy, white
cotton button downs
or the way it tore my
frayed sleeve, left
its mark on my skin.
Early Morning Poems 