not far away but rather,
seeing the faraway right here
and those who know you
or who know the feeling of themselves,
know where you are
how describe that place
where a lifetime’s memories are stored,
clean, precise, waiting, neglected, seemingly forgotten?
is it a castle; a linen closet; a box room, that place in the inner mind?
rather, it seems a library, of the books that life writes
and there comes a moment in between remarks
when the present offers nothing, so it seems;
and your mind leaves the assembled company,
walks into that quiet room, its shelves so carefully arranged
by someone unknown to you, a librarian
who knows you better than you know yourself;
I sit down in that green leather armchair, quietly;
but such the power of the memory of you
the pure essence of the memory of memory itself
that I need not reach to take that well-read book down again
but simply glance towards that place; on that shelf; where it rests;
sit, for a minute of eternity; rediscover myself;
then rise; walk, the back erect, dignified;
the stature taller for the memory of whom I am;
turning the smooth handle of the door as it closes, and
beyond all love, the watching;
freedom that makes the whole world live anew