the places that change you-

 

memory is a canticle

informing the present with its solemn grace and cadence

Like Lot’s

anonymous wife,

whose passion lay behind her,

we look back through the caul of the ever-

present consequential

thrum of traffic and dialog,

needs and must be,

appointments with no consequence and

no resonance.

we drink from this the chalice of rotting leaves:

makes good compost you say

always thinking of the garden

a thinning stand of trees

a fire in the distance

you can smell the smoke from the fire place

where someone has bought expensive wood from the Stop and Shop.

I want to go there again.

Like Lot’s nameless wife I am powerless

I look back

and am

frozen in place.

There is no forward.

Cursed by a tide of unreasonable expectation and given no carriage out

I want to go there again

To drink longingly from the river of Pieria.

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