letting go

The faded film
of a first memory,
unsure of itself.
A mop of gold toppling over
cheeks made of apples,
I had asked my mother about death
and learned the impossibility
of permanence
for the first time.

With a tendency to forget,
reminders never fail
to follow.
Marching in tempo,
splitting path forward,
the ropes of time grip my ankles.
Somehow I never learn
not to hold on
too tight.