A Perfect Memory

It is said, by other cultures,
that all water has a memory,
always seeking the way home.

As you know since I first found you,
I no longer tend a garden,
not tradition as we knew it:

my knees ground bare & sodden’d,
two hands in terra cotta
with my breezy straw hat on
in a bright tenacious sun.

And instead of gather’d water
from a chatty spring nearby,
I'm reduced to jelly glasses

in the sink in which I wash,
rinsing moss from where it lays
as I listen with my eyes.

And the water where it’s flowing
still can find me where I’m seen
in my own lone convalescence,

giving me and carrot greens
a sense, at last, of growing.

Even here as I find respite,
I take comfort from the view
giving flight outside the window,

in the feathers of my pen
and the way I always do
as I listen to your birdsong;

You’re a story never-end.
Even though my body's bow’d
and can't join to run along,
spoken word & long-hand friend.

Yet and still I know I'm bless'd,
not afraid to be alone,
doing anything I want to

in my writing down in verse,
where the water always finds me
while I quench you of your thirst.