In the Far Lands
we find our memory–
our family–
even as leaves strum
and go a sailing.
On a Cliff
we serve rice to memory…
our motherly
wristband of hair and string
defies immortality.
With some Paper
we fold desires of memory in
our eye:
our breastplate, helmet and sword
unflinching, unfalling, unfailing.
Across the River
we float lanterns of memory:
Our gently
weeping origami peek into souls
creased and caressed by humanity.
A-
Mehtacritic 