How elusive-what we want
to speak of: a face
reflected in water, the buzz
of a bee from flower to flower.
Or was it mother
weeping by the campsight at all
the family outings? The drift of incidents
builds and builds, like the fire
that makes so many shapes and shadows
we don’t know what to make of them. Yet
there were moments we seemed to cohere
to one another, to huddle close or hug
after long absences. . . .
The season
for memory is brief and clouded over,
but it strikes you that the sun was out,
you took the photograph and the family
soon dispersed. Later on, the images
and details seemed so real, an explanation
of the hillside-but you can’t find yourself
in the picture, and the flowers
growing over the meadow now are not the ones
we wanted to preserve, the ones we meant to pick.
The Subject Matter
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