The crippling clarity of Minnesota winter hit me
in mid September,
A remnant of a scent
in late November.
I tore the page of memory from a book
the tale of my humanity
and the presence of my essence.
I grappled with the meaning and had felt my self leaning
toward the present not the past.
But context had abandoned me
in my pursuit of memory
and I had but a scent and a feeling
that of course Came and Went.

Every sense
that convalesced from
periods of nonstop work
and errant stress
yet as I progress I assuredly digress
to feeling nothing
in the moments that I live
and so passionately limp
To grasp at the past.
To tear another sentence from the volume
recounting my presence
would be a sentence to
the depths of my mind,
trapping me inside.

To live on the navy stained couch of mine
recounting mounting feelings of past space and time
of crisp november newly fallen snow
of sidewalks chalked
with mysteries of the past tense of ***
of cats and dogs
living in harmony
of men, women, children
sipping herbal tea,
reaching for all this on my navy couch
would be a curse to me.

But I live for these moments that sweep me off my feet,
that hit me like a train of emotion and feeling
to bring me out of reality and back to what once was.
a little...history.