My poor Memory, my rich Imagination and I
like to stroll together through the deep forest
of my mind most days. We compare notes
on how things were and how they are now.
We come up with versions of events
we can all live with.
The shadow of a Great Blue Heron
passes overhead, so close we hear the soft breath
of blue-grey wings soaring just above the tree line
yet below the worst of our ever-changing weather.
We each take turns speculating on
the varietals of blue birds, we conjure up
mixed media images of various species
and their feathered brethren, we thrill
at the thought of their migration routes,
try not to think of their declining numbers.
Imagination chimes in declaring it
some obscure occult practice:
ornithscopy of the highest order!
Memory is lost in reverie while Imagination
suggests we recreate a ritual that might align us
with the spirit of this mythical messenger
(then yammers on about what meaning
may be found in the timing of things).
Memory and I wander off in search of a grassy field
while Imagination drones on, happy with itself,
sounding like so many summer bumble bees.
What is normal anyway?
We return home to a glass of iced tea
and begin to tidy compulsively
but not without a modicum of satisfaction.
We think out loud, putter around
as we tend to when we are vexed
by some question beyond our ken.
Now that god is a poem and not a person
We find each moment even more astonishing
than the last, we’re downright giddy somedays,
awash in the great good fortune
of this lottery win called life, though now
we see no magical motifs in daily happenings.
We find no butterfly and opine it to be
a friend from a former life.
Still we find it hard not to fall
into the old, superstitious ways
so entrenched is it in us to
avoid stepping on the cracks.
We still pray inexplicably, when we’re
lost in the dark wood of our own making
and we despair quietly, regularly,
having lost the comfortable armchair
of reassuring notions of god.
Memory recalls some piercing pain from the past.
Imagination plans for some fond, hopeful future
and I pour myself a glass of red wine
then wander around the garden.
Our cat follows as far as the blueberry bushes,
finds the perfect spot to spy on us, then naps
in the amber drift of late afternoon sun.
Friends now say serious things that
are laughable, though once we would have
solemnly agreed with their magical thinking.
Memory serves only to fade and falter
when reaching back for the sensibility
we once shared while Imagination remains
preoccupied by delusions of grandeur and
just wants to sit quietly in a book-lined room
reading poems and writing down the crazy
while dogs sleep on the floor, dreaming
of faster rabbits and unsuspecting squirrels.
Please forgive us for not attending your
We no longer remember why we should go and
We can’t imagine why we would. It’s not your fault.
We no longer believe we met so we could
work something out karmically.
We no longer feel obligated to explain.
Memory lets us go and Imagination
waves goodbye, dreams of the day when
we’ll look back on all of this and laugh
(like we knew what it meant).