Such amazing strength,
To be so weak and
Yet survive.

Father, I hope this can will do; it’s Folgers.
You loved your coffee black, mud strong.
I remember how to make it,
Water in the ***.
Float the grounds.
Boil ’til they sink.
Campfire style, you called it.
That last cup, pour careful,
so as not to get the grit. I remember
how it went.

But Father, once I do this
once we commit your ashes to the sea;
once I pour this can of dust into the river,
what then?

What should I do
with this old empty coffee can?

The beauty of Spring gave rise to
Summer, who’s warmth and gentle days
brought us to....

No.
…how did it go?

Halcyon days of May blossom into
Summer daze, lazing into bounteous Fall.
Curling Autumn leaves shiver
on crisp....

Agh!
Wrong, wrong, wrong!

Spring sprung flowers and sun and rain.
And then, fledged,
bounded into Summer’s
heat, picnics, fun, and games.
Summer drifting, wanders into Fall.
Best known for harvest, yellow buses, colored leaves, and all.
Then Winter took
that which we knew, and covered it in silence quilting snow
and said,”Wait till Spring.”

Who knows.
Could be, that's the way it went?

But, likely, more like this:

The seasons passed.
Passed with no regard at all.
Until that day we placed a marble marker in chilling rain;
and talked about Springs, and Summers, and the Winters of life,
and how we hide the pain,
and how we’ll never be the same,
and we never are the same.

In my dream, there is a broken bridge.
That bridge impossible to cross.
Yet, all is possible
                     in the land of dreams.
So,
why fret?
Except, this:
                     In my dream, there exist this broken bridge.

I like Honey.

Honey likes sugar in her coffee.

And, I love Honey at my side,

Sipping dark heaven’s roast.

Hers, a bit sweeter than mine.

Ordering a drink.
      I really need that empty glass.  

The lights are slow.   The pace
                        is dim.    The room
         has a sense of non about it.
A piano man plays
                    tuneless  songs.        
Dancers…
                               …don’t.
                    
                   And couples    stare    
            slowly
     past each other.

The way we rewrite
Our histories,

The way we polish
Our achievements

The way we conceal
Our all our flaws

I have to wonder
About memory

Was I ever that "me"
That I recall