Comfort

 What feeds memory:  running water, flowers and the light which illuminates.  

Aftermath of rain

Lingers drop by drop.  Perhaps, like memory?

 

Memory is a screen

a shade.  A way to slowly bring memory into focus.  What was the first flower at your grandmother's that said to you, "You will always love flowers."  

 

An evening of drama

Light on the wall and our imaginations flood with color.  Just like memory.  Suddenly, I wish to cook red beets.  Embrace red.  Embrace shadows.  

Some landscapes

 are only meant for dreaming.  This is one of them.  Some foods are richer in memory.  

Desiccated

 gorgeous and in a very different timeframe, fragrant with memory.  Perhaps, roses.  

Small things --

what memory makes fragrant.  I'm thinking of a favorite group of 5 cherry trees. Of course, no blossoms now but just look at the life force at the base of this cherry.  Within 6-7 months, a cornucopia of cherry blossoms and a gathering of every bee within 2 miles.  But right now is exactly a gift.  

 

And if I told you

this was the field of oak trees across the street from you seen through raven's eyes, would you believe me? Or would you say, "No, I think this is a memory of the seashore and my first bathing suit which was green with white trim."  Memory is never singular especially when it comes to narratives.
 

Black and beige

Shadows are sturdy in their flexibility to come & go without regret. Never linger too long. Slip in and out of time like the memory of a great meal. Like the slipping away of a line of poetry that just entered your eart.

Largess of the desert

and not where you might expect. 21 miles north east of San Francisco. Are these blooms more beguiling because they thrive for only several days? However, memory prolongs them. Meals live in memory, too. For instance last night's roasted salmon with mango salsa. Poems live on in the speaking of.

A large glass plate

is a wondrous thing.  This isn't that yet memory is a great creator, inventor.  So, we have a big, beautiful plate on which to place...what?  Nothing but the plate itself.  Complete.  Complete as in perfect.  Lovely.  Yes. 

Memory

is never truly abstract at least not for long.  Embodied, sensual. seasonal.  Lamenting figs, I slice a persimmon and the mouth reconnects with pleasure almost forgetting the Early Girl tomatoes have
fled.  Slipped from memory as a line of poetry unwritten.