at that point in life where a decade
makes all the difference.
No longer fodder for fantasy,
we either fly into dreams of our own
or further into factuality, suffering no fools.
You ask me, What would I like of yours,
when you die?
I am not often thrown off the mark,
but on this, I startle –
not at mortality itself, rather
into sadness that a thing might replace
Not a thing. is my first reply,
crafted for its dual meaning.
Undaunted, you persevere.
I grasp a small porcelain cup of Venetian glass,
its colors and vibrancy visited upon a bygone era;
reminder of the last time you will ever encounter
canals, and gondoliers holding secrets.
We all have a past to ponder,
impressions we store and reflect upon.
Inside this aged person is a young girl,
a budding woman, a cauldron of passion
contained in the receding pith of redwoods,
eternity sheathed in precious rugged skin.
This, I say definitively, This I will take,
if it’s not spoken for.
And once again, I hear its history.
Some claim the trappings, the furnishings, the cash.
I choose memories, and each time my hands
smooth those jewel toned discs,
you will come back to me,
as if you never left.