Walking on private property

Fences sag beyond mending

Thorns and burs and scratching curs

The road to my grandma’s house

River horizons too pink and smoky

Sharp cliffs sinking.

Who cares

If the winepress is still

If the olive tree does not blossom

I will still go back and hike a trail that isn’t there

Try to relive time that I never passed

Memory is a sleeping turtle—

Pretend it’s only a rock, but it is alive

It will slowly crawl back to the things it left behind.

Memory like melting ice cream in my fingers

So sticky I can’t ignore it.

The riverview is full of souls

Men and women going up from the valley

Death turns back around

Memory crawls in dark places

Roads and barbed wire make a sad sound

My longing hands reach up as if to touch faces.