In poetry, there is a certain palpability to memory. The past takes on a physicality – a presence. Even in evocations of spring, there is the sharp tang of memory the clings to the shape of the new rose bud. It’s as if, in the mouth of the poet, a world can be remade for a moment and we can live in it again.
We all have those moments too, if we’re lucky, where we find ourselves quiet enough to recall the feel of a day that ended years ago – ended like all days end – yet somehow it still exists for you as more than just a photograph.
Sitting over a Sunday cup of coffee in the deepest part of the weekend, time stretches out and you can do what poetry does and bring back the sound of wind when you hiked in the trees of Big Sur or the smell of bacon on a cold winter morning. Maybe you hear your mom’s voice, laughing, because bacon is the only way to wake you up sometimes.
Who knows why some things linger in the mind…but, sipping coffee from that favorite mug, we can take some comfort in the idea that time really can stand still.