Dementia

To my window she comes

There's not much time

Tell me your secrets and and I'll carry them with me

Sprinkle them.on the wooden path, on top of your footprints

On good days, I sit at my window.

Open my broken mind, fish out my memories

And speak

Two by two in song, they drink my words and sing

I'm dying, but my body will go on functioning in this world

In the midnight hours, I busy myself

Boxing up memories, bitter and sweet

Rereading books and poems that contain words for stirring emotion

Saying prayers with the hopes of finally getting the meditation right

Once done, I close the box on my life and bury it

Underneath the bottle tree my husband made from the wine we drank

Before the last pile of dirt was out back in place

I beg and pray that I remember one Word, just one