Ode to a Memory

Console me now memory that has not happened.

The back of your hand gracing my hair.
I know the tilt of your head
drawing me in, the hot sun rising off of me
with the scent of monarda and nepeta from all
day weeding the abandoned garden.
And you breath me in. I remember this
sharpness caught in my own throat of longing.

Oh, this memory that
Restrains and binds.
Loving you.
I must
Not forget.

I gather the feathers fallen.
I gather the stones from the path.
I gather the small branch that held
the bird that flew from my heart.
Song after song. I recollect the notes
that led me here to this memory
that never ever happened.

Why is it I can feel this?
You warmth. My head against your chest.
How is it possible that even the sound
of your heartbeat still echoes within me.

The summer is so far gone now.
Let me believe this moment happened
near the old fence, outside the grave yard
where I laid my grief down for a moment.
The vines twinning and the stones mossed
in the shade of old growth.
The stones unread. The berries found.
The sweetness on my lips. My fingers
stained from the juice, still touch
you. The corner of your mouth.

This memory I hold.

Did you say my name? Were your lips
just there for a moment
near my forehead whispering?
I could wait years and years tattered
and regretful. And never will this moment
happen, except here in my heart
determined to dwell for ever.