When silence fills the empty space,
there is only memory of what once was.
The heights of the towers
and the lowness of the hovels,
masking the thing that remains unseen.
The tines are made by the spinning
hooking the shards of memory in place,
a sharpness that remains
and a hardness that won’t soften
as the pieces of thought linger.
A place of birth where I was made
and knitted together by what was.
A memory living as place and form,
always as strong as it ever was,
as unshakeable as it ever was.