Does it matter one insignificant jot
that in that late and hot
sybaritic summer, the rot set?
But then weren't we just a pair
of overripe plums...daring
to fall further than we cared?
What would have been the outcome
had we at least begun - with blossom?
Do you still possess my pitiful poesies?
Or muse, like me, on these meddlesome memories?
Is it awkward and mildly mawkish to make the inquiry?
Am I stuck in reverse with this retrospective query?
Do ponderings always dredge the sludge of years?
Questions are evidently made for ears
- are the marks not fashioned so?
Björn invites us to makes pauses in our poetry with the dVerse prompt: Meet the Bar with Silence