Worn Path
I read old poems to remember
the things I have forgotten.
Nothing stays when
nothing is still.
It makes no sense to set up
residence in the one garden,
in the shade of the one tree.
There are so many gardens,
so we are not still, but we
still return, still return when we
feel the need to remember,
to stand beneath familiar trees,
the suns of lost gardens,
the pages and leaves.
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