Moving Memories

Everything ends up in a memory

MOVING MEMORIES
November 2, 2006

I took another step
weaving between bird
droppings on the stark
white cement and looked
up to see a winged hanky
cutting through the black,
green trees and I had to
stop to take in the moment.
The moment, itself, however,
did not stop and time took
it to the darkest recesses of
my mind where all my memories
live. These white birds now roost
with the black-capped chickadees
that once perched upon my
fingers and the kookaburra
that stole my meal one
Thursday afternoon long ago.
Now I’ve moved on with
seconds in my stride and minutes
on the handlebars and hours
wrapped in ironing, and taking
down the clothes, and picking
up the pen, and remembering
that scene of waving white
against darkened boughs and
wondering whose memory
they’re making now.