If place makes me
Then maybe I don’t exist.
And if the memory of redwood dust is enough to find outlines
Then maybe I am still 9
Is a long story,
And I am the ink, the song, the characters.
I am the shoes. the dusty windowsill, and the rain outside.
I am the moment where you wonder if the threads will come together.
January 2019, San Francisco.
3 thoughts on “Peripheral”
Reblogged this on cabbagesandkings524 and commented:
Nora Bateson – a poem of memory and self
I cannot tickle myself and I may find surprising redwood dust reveals a belonging I did not know. One of the crucial parts of relating is recognising in each other parts of our being that, for ourselves, have become lost and buried.