Down a vacant road,
closing a day long since expired,
a full moon brings forth your voice.

It was in the form of a song,
one I never particularly cared for,
but you often repeated it

while you rinsed shampoo
from your locks,
or drained grease from the skillet.

Why is it that a tune can
bring forth the other memories
not associated with it?

The flower upon the pillowcase in Hawaii.
The hiking trip to Yosemite,
where the trail forked forever

and demanded every ounce
out of every muscle
before we could relish the cool

cascade of a waterfall from Poseidon.
I think I'll change this station
so the next song can bury the past

and summon a memory that belongs in the
here and now. Perhaps it will take me
to the trip I had just yesterday,

the one where I heard that country banjo
while eating turkey at a deli,
and the music flew me off to

Santa Fe,
where you were floating in my arms,
dancing and in love.


(c) 2012 by Vincent Lowry