Words in the Structure of Memory

The place I live
is full of blackberry bushes
and even the hottest summer
won't give them the taste and flavor
of a childhood purpule kiss
under a mulberry tree
in a storybook setting

The place I live now
has scents and savors
brittle and bright
unsubstantial, unfaithful
and when the light trickles
through branches of the trees
memory structure starts to plays its tricks

alleys in the woods
reminiscent of storybook orchard alleys
where a little girl
in a hand made summer dress
rode on her father's bike
his arms like walls of love
surrounding her
an irreplaceable safety feeling
wrapping up the little girl's being
if only the time of that bike ride.

Moistened earth
on summer irrigation day

Here, I have Johan's yellow earth
in which immerse hands
after a shallow digging
then press fingers
on the drawing paper
or moisten shucks of walnut
to curve the lines
of pulpous naked modeling bodies

the dark inky color
bringing back
enduring scents and flavors
tastes and savors
of walnut peel stained fingers
in the quince preserves
of my beloved grand-mother
How I'd liked
to draw her now
naked,
embodiment of an old body
Warm and welcoming
in the hugely deep wrinkles of which
I took refuge
when I didn't need
to spit out words
in the void left
That no yellow earth
no scent and no flavor
can fulfill ever
Flora