Retracing Footsteps

Here we are in the place that meets the stream,

the flapjack bird whistles woe and speaks in a language of its own,

the mud is cold and deliberate under my feet,

my speech muted for the sake of breath, my corporeal embers caught in between

the teeth of the grass and the soles of the feet,

movement at the corner of the wide edged stream,

shadow of stolen moments suffering in walking distance,

I see you,

you are my memory,

small memory of this place in recognition that this is not who I’ve always been,

…coal burning in the atmospheric stove,

we are far and in between you and I, thought of things here and past,

I take your hand, deliberate memory, and let you lead me,

my lungs tight and my mind heaving of every conscious effort

to recognize you and where’ve I’ve been,

happens in a flash,

flood of energy that departs quietly into the stream,

meets the river nails and claw to steal moments

of minute river stones,

here,

where I’ve seen it all before.