American Gothic, austere and gray, but for a time it has it’s spring; and of such way, he always remembered, revering age and season of his youth; blossom and find and emerging of self from amongst the gray stone walls; open of the park in which he walked and found her there—struck, as Marius in Rue Plumet.
Blonde fall of her hair, in catch of the sun in hue matching of their rays; glow of her skin, radiant, as appears in dream and found ideal. He remembered her warmth, spirit and soul and body’s hold through years and seasons that were theirs; the books they read, poems they wrote and exchanged on scraps as notes; focus of read, light in the learn—discerning of intent—winter fires of hearths still warmed of wood and coal in age, like youth, far long and gone.
Buildings remained, college of name, and the park that aged and changed living ways—height of the trees, some died, some new, and flowers amongst that bloomed; chosen, planted, and cultivated with new caretakers through the years.
American Gothic, austere and gray, in old age and life’s winter—to him—it was forever memory of their spring.