Mnemonic | Jenny George

I forgot the prairie because it stood 
so still. I forgot the clouds because
 they were always moving. I forgot
the taste of water because it lay quietly
 inside the taste of everything.

I forgot a childhood when it disappeared 
through a hole in itself. Later, mushrooms
emerged from the damp soil.

The way to keep something is to forget it. 
Then it goes to an enormous place.

Grass grows to the horizon like hair.
In the sky the clouds go on naming
and unnaming themselves.

Once in the 40’s | William Stafford

We were alone one night on a long
road in Montana. This was in winter, a big
night, far to the stars. We had hitched,
my wife and I, and left our ride at
a crossing to go on. Tired and cold—but
brave—we trudged along. This, we said,
was our life, watched over, allowed to go
where we wanted. We said we’d come back some time
when we got rich. We’d leave the others and find
a night like this, whatever we had to give,
and no matter how far, to be so happy again.