Memories. I try and revive a few. My recognition and remembrance are faint.
A dark sycamore of disconnected consciousness lays in repose.
Waves of reason soak into the roots
And I wonder, “why does it stand ashore?”
Green to the very door in wreaths of smoke like a hermit it stands alone.
It’s presence disturbs me with the joy that elevates reminiscence which now sublimes.