Memories ebb forward slowly,
rising from soma’s breath
with the soft awakening
if a crescent moon’s glow, it barely ripples.
With the yellow crinkle and dusty smell
of pages not turned in aeons
With the inaudible creak of old fingers
and calm placement of quill,
did I write in this tome so long ago,
in flickering shadow amid the hiss of wax and wick?
Within the smell of ancient wood
and resins and herbs
a wizened voice clears its throat
and softly murmurs and chuckles
drawing about himself a soft and heavy cloak
which smells of sweat and forests,
he steps into silver mist and cloudy fog.
The deep emerald grass softly giving to his feet
as he draws near the hum and scent
of dew-covered stone set in circles.
Singing a memory to reveal long after the stone has forgotten
It will awaken itself,
singing itself forward
in a future throat’s spontaneous shudder.
The remembering one utters words with tears of unknown nostalgia,
“How could I have known that I didn’t remember?”
© 2015 William Suphan
- Time to Fly
- Who Feeds Who?