a tune you can’t recall……..
it lifts from the eaves,
slips through the loose nail in the fence,
finds the place behind your ear
where names once waited.
You stand still, keys in hand,
certain you are about to remember
something important.

The mind is a field after harvest—
stalks cut low, earth cold and open.
A face passes through it,
your father’s hands smell of oil and rain,
a kitchen clock ticks without mercy.
You know this happened.
You know it mattered.
The rest stays just beyond reach,
a word on the wrong side of sleep.

Later, the wind moves on.
The tune goes with it.
What remains is the weight of knowing
you were once full of something
you cannot inventory now.
You lock the door.
You walk inside.
The house keeps breathing,
as if it remembers for you.