They are All Fish Tales, Really

"They are all fish tales, really"

-- When my mother’s memory began to fade, she asked me,
What will become of me when I don’t have a story?
Not knowing what else to say, I told her, Lie.
                                       --Jane Shlensky


The river that is memory
twists and turns as it winds its way,
picking up silt
and carrying it along
until another force
slows the current
and the silt falls,
sometimes forming a loess,
blocking the flow,
forming pools
on which we fish
for that which was easily
within reach, only yesterday.
So drop in a line
and if it comes up empty
tell the world you caught
a clownfish
and
go on
about the color
and the feel of it
as it wriggled in your hands,
just before
it splashed
away.

Some Always Remains

It's a kind of magic

that these warm Autumn winds
blow in memories,
hidden on the backs
of the leaves which
swirl around my feet.
I find my childhood home,
preserved in miniature,
near the stem of a brilliant
maple leaf
and I sit, mouth agape,
until the wind circles around
and carries off
most of what it carried in.