Forgetting to Remember

If the river had a choice, which way would it flow?

Up stream,

out to sea or…

to conscious eyes and thankful hearts

To the thirsty young woman who gulps with sensuous pleasure

Or to the overheated children who dream of their own summer pool

Or maybe to the farmer’s parched field—mouth open, arms outstretched—to weep the gift of rain.

But then, the river’s ache for the comfort of a human body, the warmth that comes with life, the desire to be felt and appreciated every night without fail—might it be a treasured water bed that lures it the most?

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If the wood-paneled library had a voice, what would it say?

Welcome back! Remember me? I’m where your imagination sprouted its wings!

Speak softly for my head is spinning with all the words floating around in here.

I’d much prefer you tear down the wood panels and replace them with your hand painted dreams.

And while you’re at it, could you take down the florescent light and hang a candle chandelier? Anything else, gives me and my books a headache.

Oh, and please plant the garden right here beside the puffy chair. That way more children will come to play.

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When we forget to remember that everything has consciousness, a blank canvas remains blank, a moonless night stops being seen, and flowers droop far too soon. But when we remember to remember, the tiles on the old kitchen floor make us giggle, sunshine licks our foreheads inviting us to join the day, and life suddenly remembers how to give us new joy.