Memory

Memory is the fog of fall, never shrouded enough for me to forget.

Memory is a landscape of the hands too afraid to make fists.

Memory is a tall smokestack bleeding out ghosts.

Memory is a needle hidden within dandelion roots.

Memory is a wishbone rattling inside the altar box.

But, the fog tells me that letting your memory go would be desecration.

I am the sole living guardian, and I hold vigil for the gentle person you murdered with sharp claws and barred teeth.

So I hold your memory within the cradle of autumns embrace.

And honour the dead.