Do memories, and the events that live
within them, exist on another plane?
When we consider them, sort them,
try to surmise the truth they hold,
do we change or diminish them in any way?
Are they like crows, amused at our attempts
to affect something that is beyond our reach?
Memories change. Details fade
with each telling. I wait for a sign,
watch the sky for their return,
but they have taken wing, are gone.
Within the comments I left on Backstories, by Merril Smith, I realized I had the germ of a poem. Thank you, Merril, for the inspiration.
How ironic, that I found this in the “Unfinished” folder on my laptop (from 13 months ago), wondering why I never posted it. Of course, with my Swiss cheese memory, maybe I have.
Shared with Open Link Night LIVE #298 at dVerse~ Poets Pub
Image source: pixels.com