Remember? you ask
As though this one word alone,
A simple reference at a glance,
Is enough to open up gates to a space
Where we shared moments
Observing beauty together
Creating a stream to dip our feet
Later in days yet to unfold
Then
I turn the pages
Begin a search for that memory
And wonder
Where does it live
Beside the inside of a word?
On what leaf does it reside?
The one when you took my hand
Led me outside to breathe in the morning dew
With you
Us two blowing smoke
Giggling with pleasure
At the foggy treasure
While the birds greeted the day with song
Chirping in tune with the muezzins call
The sun climbing along warmly into the sky
And we engaged in all this
Sleepy though we were
The experience a kiss
Making it dear,
How about the day we walked to find
The flowers painted with spun stars
Left behind by the night
Reflecting light slivers arranged in whorls
Each of us pointing to the other
Our visions of delight
The leaves, feathers, twigs, and stones
Tickling our senses
Embedding memory into our bones
Shared with cups of tea
One you brewed for you
The other for me
In silent harmony
Unfolding till when you ask
Remember?
It pours forth from the flask
Effortless as this breath
The memories, the story of you and me,
Unwinding backward
Tenderly,
All the times you set aside
For remembrance to take root
Inside
Where the pulse
Of this word, memory,
Has an abode in which to reside;
Remember? How could you
Not.
The Coddiwomplers Cauldron 
How could we not? The wood roses, the the red flowering vine above the porch where in photographed the three of you, the reading of the tasbeeh in agony imagining all sorts of calamities, while you sat with a friend by the peacocks, all the while……..instances etched in memory
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Personal memories are such interesting instances; etched, sometimes frozen, in photographs providing coordinates and clues . . . yet each individual has or does not have a remembrance based on something more, more than the insistent telling of a singular experience, persisting as though to say, how can you ‘not’ remember this thing that I remember, that I want you to recall as your truth spun out of mine?! If only memories were that easy and swappable. But they are alive, organic, sometimes as dirty as the life giving earth, require a fair bit of tending:: work that can be exhausting at times yet so well worth it at days end and dawns beginning. Fascinating stuff to draw up on and from with in . . . each drinker with their own flavorings and tastes imbue it, turning water then to wine or vinegar, as chosen, with the potential to become a state of drunken inebriation or healing medicine or something else::
Memorys’ absence
Becomes a beacon for Creation
To light up the shore
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