One Sunday Morning
Inside the well-lit house
that is my aunt's own mind,
she fancied I was speaking
and thought of having honey,
so she put down her tray
and went to find the jar,
and taking off the lid
had got a spoonful ready,
when memory could give
no detail of the site
she'd left, where just before
she'd been remembering.
She laughed recounting later:
she'd gone the rounds tongue sweet
in dark and searched by feel.
I heard and tasted too.