Posts Tagged ‘memories’


            with thanks to Erika Moss

She arrived with a dozen pears
she had gleaned from an orchard.
I place them in a scalloped dish
and sniff the naked air,
hungry for the scent of pear.
I think of gleaning,
the wisdom in gathering
what has been left behind.
how now, I glean memories
that at first were passed over
in favor of others that were sweeter,
or bigger, or more perfectly formed,
but now, it’s these smaller, harder
memories that sustain me.
I love walking the rows of the mind
and finding memories still hanging,
ready to be picked.
I gather them into the bowl of my heart.
How precious they are, every one.

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for my son

I didn’t know you used to straighten
   the shelves at the toy store in town
     until tonight, when my friend told me
you used to go there to play after school
   while hanging out with your friends, and then,
     to her shock, you’d put everything away.
No other kids ever did that, she said.  
   But that was your nature—
     you who kept rows of mechanical pencils
in perfect lines on your desk.
   You who ate one thing at a time on your plate.
     Sometimes I pull out memories of you
and scatter them all over the house—
   memory of smelling all the spices in the spice drawer,
     memory of building pirate ships out of couches,
memory of playing Legos on the floor.
   Setting up the drum set in the doorway.
     Playing chase to Krishna Das before bed.
They’re everywhere, these memories.
   I don’t even try to stack them away
     in the closet, color coded, neatly folded,
though that is in my nature, too.
   I like it best when the memories are everywhere—
     and I stumble over the ghosts of wooden train tracks,
trip on the spot where you used to do push-ups,
   fall all over the memory of your ski gear, neatly laid out,
     and there, on the piano, I remember it well,
your music spread out next to mine.


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One Endless Supply

slipping again

out of those same dog eared thoughts

faded rose petals

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Rolling out the dough

for the gingerbread house

I find myself wishing

that I were enjoying myself

the way I always imagine

I will enjoy it when I

roll out the dough

for the gingerbread house

with my children,

but every year it is always

better in my thoughts

than in the real kitchen

where my son and daughter

bicker over who gets

to roll next and who

gets to cut next and who

cuts the straighter line,

and I have to remind

myself it is fun, right?

and that this is the stuff

that good memories

are made of. Ten years

from now, what a great

time we will be having

this day.




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