Forgetful

By Robin Rhyner

I will remember water
curling around my ankles,
braided through my legs
for a moment before sliding
back beneath itself.

I will remember my feet
dusted with sand,
my skin shining with sprinkles
of black and gold,
sparkling in sunlight.

I will remember myself tilted,
falling back to be cradled
by rocking waves,
water slipping over my face
like the caress of a hand,
the taste of tears in my mouth.

When I forget everything else,
I will remember the bay,
like a broad blue blanket
stitched by diving birds,
being borne out to sea.

I will remember it empty
and I will remember
the flood tide,
slow as an hour hand,
the spreading stain of
blue ink on paper.

When I am old,
and my thoughts are like smoke
from a beach fire
blown away in the breeze,
I will remember
the sky like a flag
unravelling to white clouds.