Memory's memory flutters in the attic,
scrabbles, looks for a way out
into the radiant open air, wants to fly off
wings edged in gold, feathers ruffled
by the breath of the Gods.
In the meantime this summertime
your memory of others is hazy,
random, like seeds scattered
from a pod snapped by the heart
and force of sun and wind.
It's hard to carry loads of grief
in the summertime, the freight of
dead stars consigned to sidings
in vacant corners of the sky
where the wagons are hidden away
