Poems for the Smiling Heart

Memory

Perhaps the star remembers its birthing inside a nebula nursery
and the primeval granite, the rubbing of ancient ice receding
and the deer its winter hair hanging on a budding branch.

Perhaps.

With my good fortune I lie inside a memory
that is as clear as a glasswing butterfly:
One early morning long ago
you gently touched my arm and said,
“Come. Let’s go down to the water
and watch the glorious Light rising.”