Everything—

every breath, every molecule
of sunshine, the deluge that caught you
yesterday, the morsel of gladness
in sharing a smile with a dear one,
that sharp taste of sweetness
down to the unfathomable weight
of yet another sorrow—

none of it will come again.

Not like this. The moment that just
vanished. That one. And the next.

That’s what memory is for, you say.
But memory is a leaky valve, dripping
away what we wish we could store
forever in our heartspace.

You vow to enshrine this instant
or that breath, tucking them
like smooth pebbles into your pockets,
as if you could preserve them.

But you can’t keep what is passing
through—this sigh, that line, this word
down to the last comma, always,
always heading to the full stop
of a period.

So pull the pebbles from your pocket,
the pretty and the ugly, each impossibly
precious. Thank them for coming.

Open your fingers and, one by one,
let them fall gently, returning to
the good earth from whence they came,

and let them go.