My Poetry. Memories.

Memories drift like autumn leaves,
Soft whispers carried on the breeze.
Some shine like polished gold in morning light,
While others haunt the long and endless night.

They linger gently, sweet and near,
A sudden laugh, a voice, a face held clear.
Then slip away, like quiet waves that part,
Yet leave their profound echoes in the heart.

They build the complex map of who we are,
Bright constellations, spreading near and far.
Though time may dull their original sharpened hue,
Their underlying warmth remains, forever true.

A scent of woodsmoke, or a single tune,
Can instantly transport us past the moon.
We stand again upon a distant shore,
And live the moment we can touch no more.
This spectral presence, vivid yet unbound,
Is the most sacred ground our soul has found.

For memories, encompassing both joy and pain,
Are the essential threads that weave what will remain.
A timeless gift, both wild and fragile, free,
They form the silent soul of both you and me.
They are the weight we carry and the light we keep,
The truths we promise while we are asleep.