Tethered and Gathered

I have noticed

that pieces of my

overall memory

are tethered at a distance

to the hearts and minds

of them in whom I have

entrusted the gift of holding.

The true height of

that hill, the actual color of 

that rock bass’s eye, the lusciousness 

of that vegetable lasagna.  Things we lived

in common.

Held

by another until called forth;

gathered.

It is an intrinsic task

of community; to store these

portions of the selves in the

porous walls of the ALL.

Held

by another until called forth;

gathered.

Today we use external

drives (which sounds like we have

been suddenly exposed), but

in days gone we knew how siblings,

neighbors, and cousins may clutch

and stash - grab and stow - the portions

of our we which fly off us

as we move.  Living.

Held

by another until called forth;

gathered.

It is in relation that we may

retrieve and gather our disparate 

fragments to the pile of our me.

Held

by another until called forth;

gathered.

In perpetuity and

trust.

Memory is communal;

tethered and gathered to and

by them we love enough

to trust and hold

the fragile lines that

give us meaning.

Abandoned Spaces

The pieces

that are no

more

have stories

to tell.

A barn's wood fallen

and gone forever.

There are spaces

that hold no

thing; places

full of emptiness.

Dark matter is

a cornucopia of

drifted living

and delight.

A quark has 

full abandon

toward

the quasar's core;

a leaf becomes the

ground, abandoning

the tree.

What writes

these changes

invisibly

into life's

design?

When are the

decisions made

to leave a thing go;

and where?

I can still

feel the dry

and dusty dirt

between my toes

from the base

of the tree

at mom-mom's.

The twigs all

scattered around

it's base

awaiting me 

to build them

into towers

and bridges

and forts.

I can no longer

see those things;

their absent presence

and goneness has

leaned an impression

upon my me.

But,

I feel them.

Perhaps the

space between 

the stars is

feeling; the

hollow around

the heart is

memory. I 

cannot say

for sure.

I know the

space of abandoned

places

is not really

bereft and

alone;

it holds something

intuited beyond

just form.

It's emptiness 

is feeling;

it's emptiness 

is full.

Piercing the Settling Veil

You cannot listen
too deeply into the
offerings of your soul.
Any word that slips
out, any image -
light as a feather -
is tied and woven
together with the whole.

A massive cloud
settles it's coolness
into vacuum of
the rock-walled valley.

I struggle to see
through to the other side.

In the morning I awaken;
my longing desire hungers
to remember the places
I had been in my dreaming.

I call out to the shadows
I feel stirring, and the images
it seems I knew in my sleeping,
hoping they will tell me
what I can no longer know
for sure.

They will reveal
the hidden wisdom that slowly
slips through my fingers
with the falling grains of
sand in the hourglass that
marks the spiral motion
of the time of our waking.

Who was there?
What did we do?
How will I feed this
thirst I feel to put
the pieces of my
fond yearning back
into a similar proximity
or familiar connection?

I cannot find the
edges to myself in
this steamy mirror
of my morning dilemma.

A raven rises
to meet the dawn.
A trout snaps a
fly from the surface
of the stream.
A hawk snatches
a robin still in flight.

Some of this
feels familiar
like memories of
planting gardens
as a child. Some
of it is grasping
at straws learning
to trust that what
arises is connected;
what I remember is
somehow important.

We spend all our days
being stripped of the pride
that challenges us to
doubt the truth of our
own soul's longing.

Look through the
glass dimly and recognize
the clarity of a hazy mirror.
Feel for the strands
that bind you to the
eternal warp and woof.

Those threads are golden.