Ode on a False Memory

by the brook before the barn house,

with blooms of spring and fall alike, quince

flowers that my memories rouse.

The man inside whose kind eyes gold,

yet face that's deeply unformed,

who did lead me to tea, and told

of stories that found me transformed.

He who showed that gushing brook,

its waters rushing playfully,

then the field's every cranny and nook,

whose fragrance I dwelled in blissfully.

These uncertain recollections, hazy

though may be this memory.

I do not relive it for identity,

for it has made me, me.

And though the masses say that field,

that brook, that house I'd never seen.

If even heavens made me yield,

I shall say with certainty, there I had been.