Memory 1

Dim kitchen light,
my mother’s lap
and the deep blue walls
around us.

The way my knees
tucked perfectly over hers
like two limbs swung
over top of a tree branch.

River

You twist down forever miles of country field,
call every town you touch your home.

Your waters seep through roots
that splay out under houses and acres
where memories are kept.

Each year, pieces pile up on your bed:
words from the neighbours' buried stories.
They've turned to dirt from years underground.

Great River, Mighty River, cascade
of memories.

The people don't remember,
but the houses that line your path
are watermarked
with the names
of all their stories.