What was it I needed to remember?
To set out clothes, feed the cat,
write a note before sleeping?
That I have forty days of things
already planned ahead this year,
and forty more half-baking?
Or that I am breathing like a lark,
quiet and close in the arms of evening,
that trouble weighs nothing
when you are no longer a scale,
that my sister runs with blood like mine,
that there is no home in space,
but there is no lack of home either,
home is the calling of bees to flowers,
the rush of pink on clouds at dawn,
or did I forget the eye that sees
the thirst of so many
in my overrunning cup?
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