remembrance

He speaks between,

behind and before my own words,

turning them back to me,

as though writing is really like tossing a

boomerang.

I write,

forget,

write,

forget,

then read those words

and remember in humility,

in rain from my light-catching eyes.

My words are crumbled bits of bread dropped,

small reminders

stone altars at river banks,

as though He is whispering

I was here.