DARKROOM

 
    I’m sitting now atop a mountain peak
    Of memories that’s seven decades high
    And aiming to find one or two that speak
    Beseechingly in hopes that I’ll comply
    By recollecting them in poetry,
    Since memories, dreams, reflections are the stuff
    From which all verse is made and comes to be,
    Refined from one’s experience in the rough.

    The image coming now is a small room,
    A darkroom in the attic of my youth
    Where I developed photos in the gloom,
    Hoping I’d captured some revealing truth.
         So is it now: I sit in pre-dawn dark
         While waiting for apt images to spark.

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