She sets her memories upon a shelf
amongst the antique brass 
and hand-blown glass,
feeling pieces of herself
linger with them there,

With braided hopes and fears
pressed between the pages
of the book of ages
salted with the tender tears
of happiness of old.

Fragile etchings, fingered lace,
pictures framed in gold
with images of days foretold,
bring a wistful smile to her face
as she draws her hand away.

And she pauses to remember
all the special times
with whispered rhymes,
of that long ago November
that is carved into her soul.


 
                         march 2004
                                ŠJanet Reid 






Bards of Fortune