The Loss

It comes, unbidden on silent feet;
In the still between chaotic thought.
Memory of another life.
Shadow,
what may have been.

• • •

The Baby

The afternoon sunlight glints off his tiny head, turns the spiky hairs there silver. What does he see out there? Out on the tarmac? What does he make of all that activity – centipidious baggage carts, taxiing planes and the occasional fire truck with lights all ablaze?

• • •