Secrets You Need to Share

Daffodil for my granddaughter on this Redwing Blackbird Spring day.
dafs 4 my grandbaby lion


Only three people

in the wide world


really know

what this image means.

Its context.
Its weight.
Its power.



Penned down into a chute,

that, unless I share it,

no one will remember.

No one will remember.


  1. // Reply

    wait for me

    I’m pulling strands
    this morning, the
    clock’s hands cry
    out in complaint

    Wait for me, I say,
    the light has captured
    the flower on the

    wait for me

    but I won’t remember
    unless I remember
    and even then,
    it’s most likely gone

    I am as transient
    as words on the wall,
    just graffiti waiting
    for wash

    wait for me

    — Kevin (who doesn’t even know now what I was trying to get at it but I got at it good)

  2. // Reply

    I used Inoreader and saw your “Wait for Me” post.
    I read, then re-read, looking for meaning.

    Then clicked to this post, and saw Kevin’s poem.
    Now the first makes more sense to me, or less.

    That image looks like the top of
    a baby grand piano, to me.
    Brand name “Lion”

    Learn to play:

  3. // Reply

    The main point of the poem and photo is this: almost all the artifacts of our lives are limited to a very few folk. I specifically kept the context of the daffodil secret. And as such no one will remember it because without context there are no anchors to memory. Here is some context: grandbaby is easy, grandbaby lion refers to her name–Caroline, but I call her my Caro-lion. When I ask her to roar she obliges her grandparents with a breathy, private roar. This daffodil was one of the earliest we picked on one of her visits. It survived being held for a solid hour as we toured the farm. This daffodil photo was taken after she left for the day and reminds me of our time together.

    The three people (me, my son, my wife) held a secret, a small one, but a secret nonetheless. It is a forgettable one unless we try to freeze it in time and space with words or pixels or conversation. Hell, even if we try to memorialize it. There is another secret poem in the margins in response to Kevin’s. Layers. Onions. Tree rings. Secrets inside of secrets.

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