I wonder does she remember the blunder on that dunder day
When she was just a kid at play on that summery May?
She, a bike rider, brother pedaling beside her, parents far behind their gravel wake
While I funned on foot forward, traveling toward her, through a ‘scape of tree and lake.
You flopped off cycle onto Anglo dirt, brother-abandoned to get some help for your hurt,
As stranger from the land of Yankee Doodle I came, backpack-bouncing to a yelp and desert.
I spun a tale about my intervention to attach reason to your scrape and plight:
“I come from a faraway place of a mitten shape to grasp and seize your fright.”
Using water and bandages to clean and cover your cuts as you sat stunned, alone,
I presently ponder do you consider me asunder from your past as a person, or mere scenery that day of sun and stone?
Fascinating a recall of something so small has wisdom of an owl and the weight of a hippopotamus,
Making me wish so many times I could read you on this page—a name signed, not anonymous.
A poet hikes and hunts in a sea of memories, rarely to recapture even one safe and grown.
Many get missed or tangled in nets of haste and zeal, rendering them dead words and bone.
So much older now, my pack’s in my head and off my shoulders, carrying this swimming swirl I pray you hear:
“Sweet girl, nothing’s better to a bard than a thought that’s twice caught from the ocean with poetry, not spear.”