At Mimir’s Well

Remember? you ask

As though this one word alone,

A simple reference at a glance,

Is enough to open up gates to a space

Where we shared moments

Observing beauty together

Creating a stream to dip our feet

Later in days yet to unfold

Then

I turn the pages

Begin a search for that memory

And wonder

Where does it live

Beside the inside of a word?

On what leaf does it reside?

The one when you took my hand

Led me outside to breathe in the morning dew

With you

Us two blowing smoke

Giggling with pleasure

At the foggy treasure

While the birds greeted the day with song

Chirping in tune with the muezzins call

The sun climbing along warmly into the sky

And we engaged in all this

Sleepy though we were

The experience a kiss

Making it dear,

How about the day we walked to find

The flowers painted with spun stars

Left behind by the night

Reflecting light slivers arranged in whorls

Each of us pointing to the other

Our visions of delight

The leaves, feathers, twigs, and stones

Tickling our senses

Embedding memory into our bones

Shared with cups of tea

One you brewed for you

The other for me

In silent harmony

Unfolding till when you ask

Remember?

It pours forth from the flask

Effortless as this breath

The memories, the story of you and me,

Unwinding backward

Tenderly,

All the times you set aside

For remembrance to take root

Inside

Where the pulse

Of this word, memory,

Has an abode in which to reside;

Remember? How could you

Not.

 

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2 thoughts on “At Mimir’s Well

  1. How could we not? The wood roses, the the red flowering vine above the porch where in photographed the three of you, the reading of the tasbeeh in agony imagining all sorts of calamities, while you sat with a friend by the peacocks, all the while……..instances etched in memory

    Like

    1. Personal memories are such interesting instances; etched, sometimes frozen, in photographs providing coordinates and clues . . . yet each individual has or does not have a remembrance based on something more, more than the insistent telling of a singular experience, persisting as though to say, how can you ‘not’ remember this thing that I remember, that I want you to recall as your truth spun out of mine?! If only memories were that easy and swappable. But they are alive, organic, sometimes as dirty as the life giving earth, require a fair bit of tending:: work that can be exhausting at times yet so well worth it at days end and dawns beginning. Fascinating stuff to draw up on and from with in . . . each drinker with their own flavorings and tastes imbue it, turning water then to wine or vinegar, as chosen, with the potential to become a state of drunken inebriation or healing medicine or something else::
      Memorys’ absence
      Becomes a beacon for Creation
      To light up the shore

      Liked by 1 person

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