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I am remembering sand. like an empty hourglass. trees flushed green dreaming of days they will shudder in gold. afraid of the days they will sit dour and bare. old crows in the branches and the sound of breaking. the smell of firewood burning through chimneys. I am remembering like roots, wet and damp. An old ancient carol of caves and the drafts of december. candles, cold coffee, messages scrawled in dirt with pointed sticks, crooked fingers. I am remembering bodies in water, lily pads, beaver dams in the distance. totem poles, thirsty dogs. wet clothes clinging to calves and splintering tables. I am remembering things that could not be moved and how we moved instead. Heat and raspberries, towels and drinking from the hose. Windows open, cake and champagne. Peace lilies, surprise endings, ice cream lines. Music, sunburnt fridays. Underwater conversations, webbed fingers and toes, glitter of beach glass gathered by hands that look like mine. Lemonade, shade, scattered schools of fish. Ruffled surfaces, dried dead flowers. Going under, in questioning quiet, waiting for another occasion to light the fuse. The best explosion money can buy. Another year older.
