To the one side, a memory, first day of fall,
Hemlocks in color around the log-clogged
Pond, a decade ago. The other, this spring,
Two fresh wooden crosses, fake flowers
Garlanding both, one with a battered
Motorcycle helmet set rakishly on top.
Other scattered memories moving about,
Bars of sun and shadows of clouds between.
It’s tempting to say there’s a story here,
But that would be like gazing over the waves
And announcing that there’s a fish in there.
The catch would be worth a little, not much,
While the observation is utterly worthless.
You know what’s really there? The thing
That was never a story, not about fish,
Nor motorcycle accidents, nor bears,
The thing that was before story, that birthed
Anything but story, which had its own birth
A million years before any memory from here.
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