The cold horizon is full of birds
that move with some strange knowledge.
We grasp at beginnings,
our fingers outstretched,
our lungs gasping for air.

We are servants of mystery,
our feet carry us through cracks in earth
toward a home without a name.

I remember a childhood of sun and stitches,
playing in parking lots
until a voice called through our kitchen window.
Those days are receding,
an iceberg melting into the warming waters
of a distant ocean.

I fear I will remember only
the shapes of the past.
I fear I will forget to remember
voices that were once as familiar
as the house I grew up in.