2015 06 29
The old woman clutches my hand and smiles.
"We find our true selves when we lose our way."
She releases my hand, and stares at grass,
and I see dream of her lost memory
when she was a little girl of twelve years.
She runs outside the paintless broken door
and wanders in grove of whispering pine trees
where sunlight gleams gold through fluttering leaves
and stares at her face in the shimmering pond,
then transforms into a bird that darts swift.
I lose her memory, that blows away
like fire smoke in a sudden gusting breeze,
and she turns her face from shadow again
to smile and ask me if I have a name.
I recite epics, laws, and fairy tales,
attempting to discover my new name.