Before the fade

Bold as a graffiti artist,

 The evening sun brushes 

 Both the Madrona branch and my potting shed 

With fiery streaks of red; 

Streaks that fade like memories 

 As the dark rolls in and edges blur 

Between known and unremembered, 

Now and past, presence and loss. 

I stumble back across the pockmarked yard, 

Wary of the molehills and the divots,

 Lest I trip and break some newly fragile bone…