The River at Dusk

I wonder, sometimes, what it is that connect us,
to who we used to be,
other than
fragile memory,
often rewritten
or willfully forgot.
was it me — or someone else —
who was here before?
i think i am me now.
but i probably thought so then too.
so what connects those me’s i cannot say.
the answer,
it would seem,
must lie in the simple wisdom
of simply being,
and trying to be OK,
with not really knowing
who exactly it even is
who is wondering about such things.