Memories

Memories

Empty here,
I’m scraping
the jelly jar,
but the knife
comes up clean.
I want that sugar
like a dedicated
honeybee that can’t
find a flower.
Honey, I need
some nectar.
I need a journey.
Road trip with me
so we can trip
on the road
and come out
less than clean.
I’m empty here,
and searching –
for the plum
juice in my dead
Grandmother’s ice
chest, for the scent
of white pines
and the sight
of their fallen
gold needles,
for the warmth
of a cup of tea
on a chill day
as my only
companion.
Memories: the air
in my jelly jar.
It’s empty, yet not.

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