I had the first four lines. I have them still.

The rest that follows—gone though not for good,

Beyond the reach of shot or shock or pill.

A freed canary flown into a wood,

A jewel buried deep within an Alp,

A dream dispersed at dawn by wakefulness.

Come weep with me, past hope, past care, past help

.My cache of words becoming less and less.

The text beyond recall I must reread,

That it in failing mem’ry  might be saved.

Then might I harvest fruit from summer seed

To bear into dementia’s wintry cave.

And if at last there only is this one,

I’ll keep and love it dearly ‘til I’m done.​

 

Accepted for publication by Rue Scribe, August, 2025