It’s that time again .
Spring is settling into another cycle of yes, I dare you,
while the dross of what’s left is still stalking,
pinching dead skin, snagged.
If memory is identity
then what memory keeps us whole
and open to the next memory
we need to create the next memory that
pushes us to the making of the next memory
and the next?
So many making their exits
in various stages of grace.
What do we hold onto,
gently,
open our palms
into
shove away with
closed fists ?
How long is memory?
Which memory lives to
spring forward
fall back?
“Oh, give me a home
Where the buffalo roam
And the skies are not cloudy all day”
And the rumble rumble of their hooves
Never dead, never quiet, never heard
run like the River Styx and
Stones
with broken bones and jaws that spread
but rarely, ever hurt me.
