There was no problem, only how
landscapes in the hill towns feel larger.
It was late September, perhaps early
October. I remember this
because the air felt empty.
The way the valley folds in upon itself,
providing to us knowledge of roads and bridges;
all the ways to get
from there to here, or here
to there. Sometimes, it does not matter
which way we travel, but only
that we stomp our feet and shake off the dirt
from our shoes. Evidence.
To recall memories is a dangerous thing.
One moment you’re waiting
and the next, you’re hit by a falling acorn
to forget or mutate. More than what we believe
is what we recall when we are not believing.
Such a small thing, but in my mind
the leaves were turning the color of stars:
such brightness. To put out the sun
is no small task. Yet the force
of our turning accomplishes such a feat
each day. Do you remember that night
in Hartford? sitting, listening to the sound
of small feet and large voices as they began
to feel comfort in their surroundings.
Between mountains, off the roadways. Sometimes
we forget that we were once children, even
if we cannot forget that we are now grown.
The way the day folds in on itself: seamlessly shifting
to moon and stars and blinking satellites
drifting without purpose
through the constellations. These are our rest
and our eternal journey. To believe in angels
or to place faith in physics is desire. The valley folds
in upon itself. Each leaf each road pulled downward
and into and through our heavy minds. We recall
colors of sharp yells. We hear the laughter
of children emanating from our footsteps.
Before and again. Pavement is but suggestion.
“Forward” and “backward” lose their meaning.
To remember how we traveled into and through.