Comments about Shirley Alexander
Ghosts Of Me
It is one bright memory.
I am nine, or maybe nineteen.
I sit peacefully in a red clover meadow.
All the years of life are colored stones,
round and easy treasures in my pocket.
Held to sunlight, each one becomes a rainbow.
Then, cracks in time break sinkholes beneath me
and a gray hand, more shadow than flesh,