memory – PoetryPix

Memory's a thing of the past.
Hoards of fragments, dredged
and fired by desires to cling, to tell
to forge all those thens as now.
In laying down layers of bedrock
we mine our personal geologies.

One word can begin the dig,
It halts now at mineralogy.
Yet long before my tongue twisted
round such a cumbersome sound,
I was hooked. Along the classroom walls 
glass cabinets of curios, unearthed.
Fabulous petrified forms
some clear as ice yet warm

 To touch, kaleidoscopes of crystal.
And myriad metallic glitters 
- enough to tempt a Midas. 
Rainbow haematite in silver-grey
and locked within, a prism.
My small hand chipped one sliver.
Such modest greed and yet it seemed
I too took fire from gods.

Windows of glowing gems
still captivate, for moments only.
I've diamonds from a grandmother
emerald engaged in a ring
and two small rubies for my ears.
All closeted away but on the windowsill
a clear quartz cluster
pointedly picking out sunlight.