Somewhere in the silky trill of the early birds
my memory finds you,
and in its deep wanderings
on this foggy morning
whatever was true and not true
surfaces in small pieces,
more tattered for having been retrieved.

You gave me a gift once.
I wonder where in this collection
it can be found —
is it one of these frayed remnants,
or many of them,
or in between them?
With substance enough
to hold all the rest in story,
or not — to let them slip through
never to be known again?

Come back again and tell me,
point it out, sing it to me,
whisper it at bedtime,
shout it down the street
as I am leaving.
Make sure I don’t forget.
Don’t be afraid of boring me,
I will listen to every syllable this time.