Taking the memoir journey
has proved an unexpectedly rough road-trip
With some piercing insights rustling to the fore
and exploding with unbearable ease
From beneath a brittle crust
long constructed around my psyche
However recalling actual travels
with my family
—after circumstances necessitated the sale
of our summer cottage—
Those trips wear a patina, a charm that memory
kindly gives to the past
Sheathing those years as if protectively
Like placing fine crystal in tissue
before stowing it for safe-keeping
In a dream, I am laying beneath a weeping
willow weeping
There is a bit of a wind blowing - no - not a wind
A breeze - barely enough to move the long fronds
of the willow; I am in a fever to keep from waking
I know if I awake there will be no fixing anything
No mending the past, no use in looking ahead...
Did I mention taking the memoir journey has been
an unexpectedly rough road trip?
