Year One
by Hyel

This day, and back,
through months and weeks
winding down
to a beginning I cannot see.

When did all this start?

I step back a minute, my footprint
an impression on wet black sand.
Another step, as I wind it all back

to where we all come from.

Inch by inch. Second by second.
I see once more the crowned head
and eyes of stone in feathered flesh;
I talk to the children who forgot to move
when the boulder began to fall.

It rises as I walk by, and
hovers a moment above
their fair and fragile heads.

The sand turns to stone,
cement and granite,
veins of silver running through.

I step on glass, and close my eyes,
but my cheeks still scar with moisture.

And then there's sunlight, and I stop.

I look into the forest,
and the forest looks into me.
And I begin to remember.

And I remember to forget.