Remembering is something of the past; an old cerebral practice.
Where I searched the banks of rivers since dry,
For the vessels and water which made up my journey.
Now, there is nothing left, but now.
Where the present is the presence of being,
And the past is a single move to an older present, not a remembrance.
So all is at peace in the strangeness of being at one with all.
Some see them faintly,
Once in a while.
Others are desirous of an encounter,
Hoping beyond hope … for affirmation.
The rest of us wait, patiently for a sign of their presence.