Pearls and Lace

Memories 
can be precious things, 
as cherished as fragile lace
and antique hand blown glass. 
I found one the other day,
gently nestled 
in a bed of spun silk
and rose petals. 

It glowed,
like a November moon
and it bore the scent
of lilacs in May.  
It tasted like morning
—and night—
on my fingers,
and as I cupped it in my hands
I felt it 
stitched to my heart
with the finest of thread.

I replaced it, softly 
in its cocoon
of hushed whispers and sighs
like a pearl swaddled
in delicate velvet.
No one knows it’s there but me
—and you—
and I will visit it 
often.

~º~

july 2006
Janet Reid





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