are your companions in life–
your memories—
that can spring out of nowhere.
Take you to a childhood afternoon
or light a mountain trail
you once walked–
the same light attenuated by bamboo,
swaying in the wind’s coming–
where a fall off the precipice
meant no returning
to the porch shaded
by the jacaranda.
Or, a sudden face
you had not thought of in years
may flash before you,
young as you saw it last,
but wouldn’t recognize, today.

They take your hands;
never let them go.
They make no neat patterns in your mind.
They may play tricks
or impress upon you
a longing
for the times she wore
the water-lily dress
that floated around her in a cloud,
cupped the white ginger in her hands,
or dreamed of banquets
when she no longer could eat.
Even that, once more.

Warm or chilling,
they stay with you,
like a quiet child might,
or a noisy one,
but always at your side without apology
waiting to take you down
the street you ran on
with your sad old dog
or the wobbly bicycle wheel
you rolled with a stick
in the spindle of summer
that unraveled the threads of your life.
They bring up matters
that send sentimental tears
down your cheeks;
feed into your old heartaches.
And oftentimes, in your recollections,
you pass them off
to your children
without ever meaning to be cruel.