This piece is my reflection on the concluding line of my poem “Continuous Awareness” (January 23, 2017).  I published it but did not know precisely what the line meant.  It simply “felt” right.

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Words entered my fingers without thought
in the evening cold, begotten
as if from the pregnant and shivering air.
“Tender repose of our ancestors…”
where forgotten times and stilled loves
become created life again, speaking.

Words work themselves out of our past
try to say who we are, what we mean,
speak of roads we might travel
remind us of those we must travel alone.
They stumble, fail, fall short of the mark,
tell of promontories seen only in dreams,
memory shards of orchards in spring sunlit bloom,
cold light of blue dusk in a wintry wood.

What did I mean when I wrote the words?
They.  They live in my presence
suggesting words for remembrance –
what they saw, wished for, passed on
so to live in the light of the glory world.

What might I do for them this night
but write as they tell me in words?
They fall to me, drifting into time –
nothing more but to catch them when they come.

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Portland, Oregon – February 3, 2017