Boiling Memories

The tempest cooks memories in a pot of wind;
lightning become ladles that stir the memory.
Every drop bursts forth, an old name re-emerges
and the past thickens on night’s windowsill.
To the moon’s silence, the broth calms and matures.
The moon remains a golden lid, immutable listening.
I stay to taste the cold flavor left upon my tongue,
while the rain falls silent and memories breathe again.