the fact that someone notices

we are mostly memories
hoping to be recalled;

given purpose and consequence
in that instant instance
just before the page turns. 

what was it we just talked about?
you know, 
the gloom that brightens 
and slumps at the same time.

the craving that our body of work,
our remains,
continues to vibrate and clang
in some useful measure-
still.

in retrospect,

piece after piece,
a life re-sembles
some of the art 
that frames it.

but 
these are not materials
of matter.

not mortar or 2by4.
no rebar, no shingle.

they will not ever
sit level or
settle into a
foundation.

memory is metaphor.
moments, echoes.

most is just
fleet foxes daring us
to follow around the tree,

tails flashing a beckoning
or a caution,
warning,
in the last minute,
that we have
left the path.

left our home.

we are chapters,
not categories or
title pages,

thumbed and dog eared
by another reader

and our story,
like the fox's print,

will disappear
under iridescent
snow before it
is ever
truly
found.