neural cleansing

30
I remember all to well these things:

the summer shade of an orange tree,

the winter sky at night,

the feel of blue denim cotton.
Some are renewed on a regular basis,

others,

I hold inside for safe keeping.

The rest have been lost like a child's mitten, or they have died slowly.
At night, so quiet, a promise that stands in waiting to be kept,

fulfilled,

and brought to light.

I pass and smile in courtesy.
Promises and dreams and hope and aspirations crowd around me when I have time to spare.

A book of poems will not allay their voices.
I think I will take or leave them as I choose.

Smiling, when I walk with a careful step and wondering if a memory is a wonderful thing to lose.