Memories float behind closed eyes,
drifting dandelion seeds upon an invisible breeze,
just beyond grasp.
Elusive as a dream, though numerous as the leaves on a tree,
they dance behind curtains, vague forms in the shadows.
Only the pen can bring them to the light.
With a sentence you recall the warm breeze on your face,
the smell of the rain, the taste of your pain.
Through a poem these moments manifest as stars,
shining eternally bright in the constellations of your memories,
So that you may recall the bliss of youth
when your heart grows heavier with each passing year,
and your fire simmers to glowing embers.
So that you may recall the playful heat of summer
when the branches bow beneath the weight of ice and snow,
and a cool, tranquil silence envelopes the world.
So that you may peel back the layers of time,
remembering each year through the lens of a younger self.
Until, floating down a river of ink,
a river that grows wider with each tributary you add,
you begin to puzzle out the beauty of the world around you,
the magnificence of the experiences that make up your life,
and the simple elegance of your place within the swirling expanse of eternity.