The Strange Nature of the Remembering Self
The leaves fall away like memories-
a year of moments that, together, form a whole-
form Tree, form Self in TIme, until
in small, cold, breaths,
our moments unmoor
and drift
and drift
and drift,
separate,
distinct,
colors caught in the light, until,
again, the memory settles in
to a new, chaotic and colorful whole-
ground cover, not tree
Self in Abstract, not Self in Time-
rotting in beautiful, pungent layers,
and there we are, red and gold, and orange
smudges in the sweet mash,
a swirling impression of the life we’ve lived this year.
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