I
Light snow, the temperature at freezing,
a breeze moving the outermost tips
of branches. I sit inside. I look out
to see in like a sorceress casting bones
to read the time not yet here arising
from the past. There are days for remembering
and days for not remembering. Like the scales
of Justice, who knows how they are balanced.
The light is up, the sun hidden. “Like memories,”
I say, reach for my coffee, look outside
again wondering where I’ve put my talisman.
II
Who has not felt that treble hook
of the past sink into a moment, drag you back
into the vortex of what was and then that sense
of drowning? And who has not escaped?
Sputtering, fighting for air, saying,
"Never again!" finding a pearl in the center
of your fist.
-Byron Hoot
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