The Purple Poppy-Mallow

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Somewhere deep

below the

the grey mottled 

multi-layered

portrait of me

whose surface has 

hardened like a criminal

you will find 

a canvas of ghosts

the lost souls of my life

buried beneath six feet of paint

who are suddenly as clear

and luminous as the stars

observed from the deck of 

an oars up caravel

slicing through the wake of an ancient night

Their resurrection 

began

with my own,

summoned by age

which drew me

like a gentleman caller

to the fields of pentimento

where

the earliest sketches

and baby step  brush strokes

of those

who I have 

misjudged

disappointed

and most of all 

miss 

thrive like purple-poppy-mallow

waiting to be repaired.

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