Everything remembers something. The rock, its fiery bed,
cooling and
fissuring into cracked pieces, the rub
of watery fingers along its
edge.
The cloud remembers being elephant, camel, giraffe,
remembers
being a veil over the face of the sun,
gathering itself together for the
fall.
The turtle remembers the sea, sliding over and under
its belly,
remembers legs like wings, escaping down
the sand under the beaks of savage
birds.
The tree remembers the story of each ring, the years
of
drought, the floods, the way things came
walking slowly towards it long
ago.
And the skin remembers its scars, and the bone aches
where it was
broken. The feet remember the dance,
and the arms remember lifting up the
child.
The heart remembers everything it loved and gave
away,
everything it lost and found again, and everyone
it loved, the heart
cannot forget.
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