Once upon a time
little old ladies
foraged for wild salad greens
in the fallow fields along the road.
Defined as weeds by many,
crowding out more urbane peers,
these humble plants
gave spice and flavor to
would have been
a more pedestrian dish.
The little old ladies
and their rough homespun aprons
have now been relegated to memory,
echoes of a past
but sometimes difficult
tenacious as those weeds.
We too are foragers
as we dig deep into our past.
Foraging for memories.
Some we must wrench from the soil,
for it is the roots that have a bite.
Some are simply leaves
cut at the base,
leaving a few stems
to regenerate new memories .
Or other versions of the old.
For memories are fickle.
Some can be like dandelion seeds
that scatter in the wind.
Yet they too will find a foothold
and refuse to go away.
Memories that range from birth to death,
from a fleeting shadow on a wall,
to an eclipse of the sun,
or a farewell to what we had thought eternal.
Memories that are always there,
surfacing when least we want them
when least we expect them.