We met

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.


2012-04-14 17.24.05

2 thoughts on “We met

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