and holding my notebook in my hands,
and then I'm standing on the other side
of the orchard fence, near the pond.
I'm fifteen years old.
I'm training my horse to ground-tie
but he picks it up so easily I suspect
he's been taught this trick before.
And then I'm back in the green chair,
remembering reading somewhere how we don't learn anything,
how all we can do is be reminded
of what we already know.
And then, because my horse thinks I have forgotten the lesson,
he walks away from me.
He is nosing the grass for fallen apples.
I sit in my green chair and think
about what I know beyond knowing.
The smell of apples ripening in the sun.