Nostalgia

Asphalt smells rain-like, fingers fluid sing

Sonnets, verses – old haunts and poems new.

Stoic pen asks what Providence will brew

Amidst erupted skies, awakening

Memories – soaked, drowned. Cold winds bring

Enough words, taciturn, fertile, and true,

To write of moments – lost, forgotten, few -

As this weather silently spies to string

The old cities of youth – a mundane row,

Unfortunately captive bricks of home.

Will keepsakes held in each fiber of time

Remember fiercely this name tomorrow?

When death has colored this poem chrome

Will nostalgia govern all reason, rhyme?