Memories fade.
Sometimes, they disappear in
time’s crowded drawer,
never again to raise a sparkle
in the human eye.
Tucked away and inaccessible,
they seem to have
been buried before the body.
And yet…
However deeply smothered
with sticky clay,
that silent grave still contains
the earliest seedlings.
When coaxed, the pleasure of
a childhood rhyme
is effortlessly rediscovered.
“Row, row, row your
boat, gently down the stream.”
Dancing on the tongue,
not a single word is forgotten
as she sings along.


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