memory is a canticle
informing the present with its solemn grace and cadence
whose passion lay behind her,
we look back through the caul of the ever-
thrum of traffic and dialog,
needs and must be,
appointments with no consequence and
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
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.