Fog of Time

My mind is like a fogbank,
more so now that I am in my ninth decade,
less than it will be in a few years.

Sometimes I can’t recall the names
of plants in our garden, though
late at night a name pops
into my head and says, here I am,
in a voice clear and bright. By morning
the name has departed like yesterday’s news.

Luckily my wife’s name never abandons me.
She is, was, and will be Joyce,
perhaps the last thing unfogged
as my recall disintegrates
like sandcastles at high tide.

I tried creating a pack of study cards,
like the ones I used in college to learn French,
each with the name and picture of a plant,
but sadly I laid the pack down and can’t
remember where I left it. Maybe the memory muse
will whisper in my ear in the middle of the night,
saying, look under the pillows on the living room
couch, which by morning I will have forgotten,
leaving it to the cleaning lady to find them
next time she comes.