My friend Memory

The gifts that flew from my hands,

young and reckless.

Soaring now,

gliding now through the air

on some other wings.

But I hold them all in my heart.

Memory like an old friend of mine.

She calls when she pleases,

and leaves me on hold for hours

or days or years,

while she switches the laundry.

It’s the gift of marked days,

remembered days

marked in time and in my body.

When a thing set out as joy,

dove down to the underworld,

came up for air

translated into a date.

I hold them, and am learning,

slowly over the hours

or days or years,

how to let them fly.

Megan Jones