The memory

Every age presents the promise
that we can begin again
gently, softly, as the late snow melts
as birdsong fills the quiet mind
something innocent in the air
like the idea of a welcoming god
like the sound of a broom on stone
we step lightly so as to not disturb
the memory

Places in the heart

I have no house
not the way you think
of houses, or questions
about houses
the answers I miss most are
doors painted shut years ago
those houses
were burned down anyway
out of meanness I think —
you told me once
how to escape from all of this
from remembering funerals
photographs in wallets
perfect, unattainable houses
stories and repeating myself
but that was years ago —
I forgot what you said

(Both from my notebook.)

photo credits
(where not otherwise credited)

“Girl with doves” / photograph by Kalcutta on Shutterstock (editorial use by permission)