roy herndon smith
flesh forgets nothing
the thought, the flick of a leaf
shadows fluttering
on the self-portrait
in a red Obama hat
of the friend, now dead
his ashes strewn in
the garden he putted in
each stroke traced a line
of the poem of
dust composing life rising
from the earth, falling
back to earth, ashes
drifting into trees, their leaves
filtering sunlight
dust 