All memories, with death,
grow dim, but yours
Warm September wind, sunshine,
manure drying itself in round piles
you can kick, and dissolve into dust.
The sweet smell of it, the same
as it smelled thirty-three years ago,
at Harold Johnson’s place.
I breathe in memories like air,
close my eyes and see them all
alive again, laughing, telling jokes
about how they want to come back,
When they die, as a young girl’s horse.
Everything is the same.
Everything is completely different,
but more and more, I’m somewhere
between this soft day,
of this soft day some place else.