One knows of little things
of past, a few pages of
a book unread
and relates wooly tales
of porcelain teacups
grandpa brought from a fair
after winning a wrestling bout
in a mad bevy of dreams
as a strip of fantasies
tied up to routine passions.
You forget many loving
incidents of past
for it is a comic hiatus
in a life of petty joys
that triggers many pains
and tells essence is alive
even in opposing situations.
Truth of life rushes to rescue
a gutless soul
toughens rickety knees
and reminds of big moments
when small routine doings
speak of a great saga
that life is.
Past is a heritage
if you recall correctly
it punctuates each bit of joy
with meaning,
an image of life’s intent
that defines marks of eternal
tiny options life proposes.
You love to notice
hold, drive and stutter around
a typical yet trivial act
a try to retrieve things
of self to rediscover self
for here you find
new meaning.
