The Remembering

I go to an oak tree
sometimes.

I summit that hill,
gliding through light, violet
air.

The cuffs of my pants
heavy and rimmed with
moisture—

a gift from each gentle
blade of meadow grass
that caresses as I
pass—

imparting onto me its
lone and hopeful
dewdrop.

………

I climb barefooted,
so that I can experience

the vibrating tones
of a heaving, live
earth,

up this narrow path to
visit my friend—

the Ancient Thing—
the one who spreads his
permanent and welcoming
arms—

an everlasting invitation
to rest
awhile.

………

He is love and wisdom,
and I recline,

my sore spine contours
against his massive trunk, as
my body sinks heavy
into a warm patch of
ground.

………

Many times, we sit in
silence,

acknowledging the open heat
of each other’s noiseless
energy,

but often, we
commune—
exchanging words:
ones with sound and ones
without.

………

I ask my friend to
show me my love’s
face,

so that, even though in
life we are made
separate, I might see
her for a time, if only in
illusion.

………

Because,
I have known
love,

and she has a
face.

This wise old tree
indulges me—
allowing me a glimpse, one
that is just an imprint
of the shape of my true
love.

………

I sit, and I look into
the everything of you—
the one I never want to
forget—

the one I won’t
forget.

I am, and
wrapped in this
indigo twilight, I
listen

to a sound of leaves,
that rustle high in this
brisk and compassionate
wind.

………

Your love for me may have
atrophied and dried,
shriveled and shrunk with
age and expired—

I will never know.

But mine for you is
like a swelling
tempest, gusting without
letup within the walls of my
being.

………

Under this timeless oak,
I am allowed to be
me—

unfettered and awake,
free to express and to
remember.

Always,
I remember you;

in you,
I remember love;

and through you,
I let go of all else.

8 thoughts on “The Remembering”

      1. That is what we call talent, the truth is art that flows out is the best, for example, I do not believe that Milton or Alexander Pope spent all their time engineering each line. The narrative must have flowed out more or less perfectly in iambic pentameter/heroic couplets.

        Liked by 1 person

      2. That is such a fine compliment, I’m not quite sure how to reply. I’ve never thought of myself as particularly talented, but I suppose we are all our own harshest critics, as the saying goes.

        I thank you for your words.

        Liked by 1 person

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