Someone's Memory

Perhaps I once entered someone’s memory. The place was planted with a forest of large shade trees and loud voices. On one of the trees hung a painting of a cat, a cat sleeping on a fence, a cat who was famous to the birds. The cat woke up to stretch as daylight ended. I called out to the cat, to the trees, to the birds, to the loud voices; I called out to the shadow of the sky’s wide and immense stare, to the empty, black, interstellar nothing, to the dark gleams appearing on the backs of leaves, but not even a breath of wind answered me.

Maybe as the night progressed I called out to the moon who appeared to be so close that it would be possible to travel there to visit her. I called out in a silence only the moon could understand, but the moon was looking elsewhere. My mind moved on to the next memory, a story that formed a treeless forest where all possibility of upward escape was cut off.  I met you there once in this field of wildflowers and running streams, but who is going to tell me how to find my way to you again in this land I am speaking of? Who will dare to plant a single tree in this field where eye and spirit remain divided in layers of stopped voices and inverted shadows?