What Does It Mean When Memory Speaks and Sings in Poems?

That little café, daring to claim
that behind its door awaited
another kind of space and mind,

used to have short, off-white curtains,

as though they were mockups
for chance ivory gates of dreams,

either woven or drawn
by Penelopes at night.

But each of those now-vanished blinds
seemed like a piece of blouse

hung silent before a bath,

where the light poured in subdued
through that yielding passage.

And beneath such mellow shade,
now and again I would jot a verse—

perhaps even a poem
caught while merely passing by—

made of distant meadow scents,
honeyed by dew and sun,

and longing to refresh
the feet no less than the mind.

And so it is no less strange
that simply by remembering
how it once was—

a Muse, a butterfly,
brushes my face again.