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.