Winter Thoughts On A Summer Afternoon Poem by Sonny Rainshine

He resisted it,
nostalgia.
He longed to be
here now,
reacting to events
as they occurred,
not reliving
long past victories,
calamities, assignations.
Not living where the dead live,
in tombs where cobwebs and dust
linger in the silence.

But at night,
when ghosts assemble
and remember when they lived,
and where they lived,
and how they lived
and want to live again,
the fingers of remembrance
beckon him back—
to times back then, back when
he was happier,
to where he first fell in love,
and how deeply he felt
things then.

No resisting
nostalgia.
It never forgets us.