I tend to your memory
like one working a small flame in the wind.
Blowing the end of an incense stick
to give scent to the formless
to sanctify and bear witness
to the chaos that follows change.
What does it accomplish,
putting new roots in the decay?
Cleaning out the attics of the old
by the light of silent entry,
while the past falls through the cracks of dawn
hovering above the roof and chimney.
Shifting seasons awaken with smoke
the smoldering clouds and coiling snakes
many hued in a moment’s wisp
that won’t support the weight of the present.
Watching as it evaporates,
all can appreciate its exit.
What is memory but the imprint of a passage?
Immaterial marker
in the consciousness of a dreamer
who conjures pictures
to match the feelings of departure.
“We are never here for long”
says nature
but I remember the paths
we made to the water’s edge,
though the footprints fade
and the wind works on
what was designed to outlast us.
Fire, the great leveler
starting small until
crawling out of proportion.
It consumes the highway
and covers the sky.
The horizon is lying
like a steel plate in the sun
burning
balancing on a melting moment
you can almost hear crying
in kindling
creativity to capture the shifting colors
in the mirror pools of effervescent lakes,
where the sky dabs its face.
Subtle transformations,
day to night
light to grey
all is interwoven
in the poem of knowing
no stitch remains.
yakskinpocketnotes 