Sometimes I’m not ready to write
when the word comes to me.
It’s then swept from a fickle mind’s consciousness.

My memory appears haphazard in exercising a varying acuity.
I’ll remember a stranger’s face, but not their name.
A picture of a trivial moment lingers in my mind, but why? Writing explores.

At best, my memory is an incomplete story of a biased history.
Mostly pictorial, and only inches from a dream, my recollections border fantasy,
as a silhouette of hopes I’ve etched in sand at the edge of a rising tide.