Many-faceted shining bits
    of what we said and did,
they filter softly down
    and crowd around my knees.
Quiet they gather, tiny, crystalline,
    and dreadfully perfect,
piled one on top of another,
    each hard to find.

Still, in the dark, they steadily mount—
    threaten to overwhelm me.
Even after these three hours
    they have drifted deep.
The longer this goes the colder I get;
    the harder it is to leave.
Sleep comes on. Wallowing here
    would be so very easy.

But I push back my silent friends—
    resist collective weight
to wade through, beat an open path
    back to conscious self,
away from pointed chill remnants
    of time I dare not touch,
toward the beaconed, beckoning light
    of the glowing hearth.

About Greg Wright

I have worn many hats as a writer and editor over the years. Unlike my scholarly and journalistic work from the "old days" at Hollywood Jesus, Past the Popcorn, or SeaTac Blog, the writing here is of a more overtly personal and spiritual nature. I hope it provokes you as much as it provokes me.
This entry was posted in Other, Poetry. Bookmark the permalink.

2 Responses to Memories

  1. Anna says:

    So vividly lovely

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