A poem was written down<\/p>\n\n\n\n
four years ago, the notebook<\/p>\n\n\n\n
subsequently lost.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
But like an oft-viewed video<\/p>\n\n\n\n
the images still appear<\/p>\n\n\n\n
clear as the day was hot. An old<\/p>\n\n\n\n
woman with Alzheimers<\/p>\n\n\n\n
sits under the oaks, three<\/p>\n\n\n\n
of five offspring accompany<\/p>\n\n\n\n
her. They\u2019ve been chatting,<\/p>\n\n\n\n
telling stories about their<\/p>\n\n\n\n
kids, or their students, or<\/p>\n\n\n\n
sharing funny memes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The woman holds up a green aluminum<\/p>\n\n\n\n
pop can, the Winco brand<\/p>\n\n\n\n
of Sprite. She takes a sip,<\/p>\n\n\n\n
looks upwards, and says, \u201cThis tastes<\/p>\n\n\n\n
about like what that looks like.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
<\/p>\n\n\n\n
We look up \u2013 lemon-lime-can-colored August<\/p>\n\n\n\n
oak leaves fifty feet overhead against<\/p>\n\n\n\n
a brazen blue sky. Six-ish divots<\/p>\n\n\n\n
per leaf, hundreds of leaves per<\/p>\n\n\n\n
branch. They rustle in the soft wind,<\/p>\n\n\n\n
and sunlight irregularly passes<\/p>\n\n\n\n
through the verdant dance, bright<\/p>\n\n\n\n
sensation, there and gone again.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
<\/p>\n\n\n\n
What a perfect poem she has uttered<\/p>\n\n\n\n
This woman (who\u2019d, in the 60s, met<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Dal\u00ed at a party in France, or was it Germany?)<\/p>\n\n\n\n
<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThis is who she really is,\u201d I think.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I love meeting her at last.<\/p>\n\n\n\n