Memory

If I make a sound
it's an accident
like the rustle of leaves on a sidewalk.

My voice croaks like a toad in reverse
unfurling its long tongue and letting go
a king.

We're petals and wings, we are
bits of color unfolded from the black
self-made origami
excited utterances
that slip back into hiding
whenever the light burns too strong
only to re-emerge, pushed out of the dark
by a breath.

We're dirt-encrusted seeds
secret turns that one by one become leaves, pistils, stamens, flowers,
and seed again
while seed memory - a flower, a heart - flirts with hovering flies
enticing with sweet exhales
until one alights to be stealth painted in pollen
freeloading to the next seed memory.

That's all there is
when the air arrives to lift a wing into flight
or brushes petal lips to catch a scented kiss:
where you once had eyes for me
there is only memory.