To remember is to
melt into the neon honey
of the setting sun.
To feel the tender chill of the ocean’s edge
zip through your body
and release into the night.
The knowing, burly and generous like a sycamore root.
Disguised as a hummingbird, quick and fleeting.
It sips nectar in bliss
then dashes without notice.
Its absence is peculiar.
Something is not right, but we can’t name it.
We move through the days as if clomping through jello.
The tide scoops us up and we’re swirling through honey once again.