Memory

We start from a dark place before we are born,
reach for the ambiguous lightness
beyond
as if we could see through the window
into lighter places,
through a cloudy film.
It’s always there in winter, for some.

A tiny glass basket pulls me back to
childhood: its’ candy colors, stacks of rings
like playground sing-songs
memories carried as a burden or
a teaching
carried in starts and stops
like drops of water
or shards of crystal glass.

I drink it up.

— Maureen Shaughnessy

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Comments

  1. Pam · Reply

    This left me breathless.

  2. Phyllis Lefohn · Reply

    Your words are a poem from the deepest heart-spaces, and like those drops of water or shards of crystal glass, the words shimmer in my own heart, all the while reminding me of the transitoriness of all. Thank you!

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