Volume 18: Are We Memories Yet?

On the far side of camera lenses, a furl of leaves

Catch the wind and tumble to the ground like coins of gold

Catching their last glimpses of light as they are tossed into a treasure

Chest and sealed away to dusty attics filled with memories

And the fading whispers of gossip and sworn-by secrets

Locked away in diaries, guarded by old wooden window frames.

Under the cracked glass of delicate picture frames

Lies a collage of smiling faces still living beautiful memories

Of years past. If they were scattered outside into the golden

Sunlight, they would happily dance with the ensemble of leaves;

They would give every single one of their secrets

Away to the wind, and share the joy that is their only treasure.

But they are immobile, sitting patiently on top of the old treasure

Chest. The last streaks of sunset glow through the withering window frames

Falling on a ring of intricately designed keys, their majestic silver and gold

Bodies no longer sparkling; dulled by a sprinkling of dust left

Behind by years upon years of chaperoning secrets

Carefully bound with locks whose locations are now faint memories.

A small ballerina in a corner of the room, as if remembering

The season, pushes away the antique hand-painted framework

Of her chamber and begins to spin. She was once a treasured

Heirloom, but that was long ago, and the only audience she has left

Now is a room full of objects of the past, nothing but lonely secrets.

Nonetheless, she dances, sighing deeply in her heart of gold.

The sun’s rays flicker outside, and for a single golden

Moment, like the feeling of anticipation before hearing a secret,

The room lights up, glowing like a coin in a treasure

Chest. But then it fades, the glimpse of hope so quickly turns to a memory,

Tucked away in the depths of the attic. And the cracked picture frame

Meets the settling dust the way the ground meets falling leaves.

Once secrets have been whispered, their precious golden

Contents no longer contained, they become memories that are left

Behind to be treasured; seen only through lenses and frames.