recuerdo means memory in Spanish

A poem for our youth, for you as you fly with easy breath all the way to a far off island, and for me as I peel a tangerine for my son's school lunch.

Recuerdo, by Edna St. Vincent Millay

We were very tired, we were very merry— 

We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry. 

It was bare and bright, and smelled like a stable— 

But we looked into a fire, we leaned across a table, 

We lay on a hill-top underneath the moon; 

And the whistles kept blowing, and the dawn came soon. 

We were very tired, we were very merry— 

We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry; 

And you ate an apple, and I ate a pear, 

From a dozen of each we had bought somewhere; 

And the sky went wan, and the wind came cold, 

And the sun rose dripping, a bucketful of gold. 

We were very tired, we were very merry, 

We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry. 

We hailed, “Good morrow, mother!” to a shawl-covered head, 

And bought a morning paper, which neither of us read; 

And she wept, “God bless you!” for the apples and pears, 

And we gave her all our money but our subway fares.

this is thirty (one)

“Originality in art means settling into who you actually are.” — George Saunders

Some Sort of Small Business

In the background, in the kitchen, of a coffeehouse in mind, I can still feel the fresh winter breeze find it's way through the tall windows and as it was settling on the old wooden floor
there was a ringed rug in the middle of the open expanse, and people always passed over it like it didn't exist.
I can't possibly understand what possessed them.
I just know that I was there.

Suspicions from Upper Canada

Be careful out there,
my mother said
the day I got on the bus.

The people who ended up out there
are there for a reason,
they left civilization and
went as far away as they could possibly go.
Most of them were probably on the run.
Misfits and creeps and criminals,
she warned, one hundred years later.

By the time I got off the bus in Vancouver
I still hadn't figured out which of the three I was.

move

Like an old sound on the radio, a friend on my mind.
I sit here projecting out of this old place with the high ceilings and warped creaky floorboards.
For hours I'll just sit here and remember how long it's been.
I will smile at the snow outside.
I'll drink tea and rock, and I'll get up to cook.
I'll look at all the old photos again and know when I hung them.
All the pages of books I'll smell.
The guitar has been behind the couch for far too long.
I'll recall every inch of this room in silence as the dust settles,
and with every sound the floor makes I'll spring back a couple weeks.

A Gamble With Time

The only thing separating Me from It was

 a thin white line,

a thin white line,

a thin white line,

and something else that I left behind.

Although my mistakes have been purposeful I know

a thin white line,

a thin white line,

a thin white line,

is but a gamble with time.