If I could only tell it so as to be a film for you,
so you could sit and view
the brightly painted roofs atop the hill.
If I could spill this story out
so you would know the way it felt
beneath the water over the rock,
the way it stopped our lungs and stole the air
and how it left us lingering there.
If I could say it like I saw it,
if I could draw for you the faces,
the way a crooked chin and gapping grin lit up a room,
the hips that looked like they were laughing when they moved.
If I could play a note to sound like distant roosters
and pretend to let you in on all of this
it’d be a lie,
but not to try? I’ll try
and paint the picture of the coffee brewing
or of my mother cooking at the stove
but how should you ever know
the way the storm clouds smelt
rolling over the mountain before dinner?
I’ll try to tell it how it was
and if not for you, then just because
its nice to remember again.