tendrils of bathing mist
preceded steps
drips
drops
and out of the flushing warm to the
waiting, not-yet-waning moon
no pockets with which to keep a word
but on my lips
"remember"
as locked eye
the moon and I
renewing vows
remember

In the jingle-rattle
old friends
new fruits
and the same two feet
on cold stone
looking up at you and I
remember
what it is to be
what I am
when what I am is