Poem

Of Memory

Seen as if through morning mists

Across marshes

We gild our lilies.

Is that how it was?

A tale of endless summer days

Edited so expertly.

On the cutting room floor

In swirling cellulose

Lie discarded scenes

And nameless faces

Lines once said

But since unheard.

Perhaps the truth is tangled there

Like ticker-tape
After the parade.

Long ago

I carved my name on a sapling

But healing bark and moss

And seasons churning

Have obscured the lines

Till I'm no longer sure

I gouged it.

And I think to myself...

Is that how it was?