pondering

It’s a memory I’ve hoarded for twenty-odd years
and still claim in moments of déjà vu when time stops,
its seed case cracks open, as a storm cracks open,

a whole summer happens in one hour, and I know again
what Plato’s paradise of souls awaiting rebirth is made of:
birdsong, thunder, green, cicadas, and heat.

— Margaret Holley, from “Walking Through the Horizon”