A patch of bluets that escaped the mower. As all matter unfolds. Who is writing? You see.
Memory is not romantic. Ideas are. A handful of bluets shifting in a light breeze after mowing. If you can get close, you can hear them too.
I am saying that and not this which means now I am. You do see, and hear as well, and the bluets are all of that. Yet not here in the poem. Though perhaps - helpfully - in your mind as you read it.
Thus this. The bluets remembered following a walk last week down Sam Hill Road, the dog tugging at the leash, and the kids rolling crabapples like bowling balls along the uneven macadam. Like that.
Nothing escapes just as nothing mows. Yet something does capture - or memorialize - and it does not capture or memorialize everything. Is that what I am saying? When I meant to say - as I am only now remembering - forget-me-nots.
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