You cannot remember where you have never been.
But they are there
Those same trees, the cabin, the bed where you would make love
On an afternoon of honey-making
There is a corner
In a wine country village
Where street signs cross
Spelling your maiden name
You would go there together
And wonder about a person you once were
And who you might become
If this memory of a time you never spent
Honey-making
Were to become brittle fact.

But what you fear
Is lack of chance
The street signs are there
But what were the odds they would spell your name?