At a Certain Time

You polish all the sweet memories
and keep them, gleaming, on your shelf,
to take them out, one by one,
whenever you need a smile, a wicked grin, a laugh...
But, at a certain time,
you realize that dusty memories
provide a poor replacement
and cannot compete with the now-ness of now

You hoard all the grievous memories:
pain, betrayal, bitterness and loss.
Then, midway through the night, midway through the bottle,
you repeatedly excise this cancer,
sure your spirit's bleeding
is the sacrament that feeds your Muse.
But, at a certain time,
that well dries up and your pity-poetry,
(whether implicit or explicit)
starts to read redundantly.

You smell anew the morning air,
begin again to hear bird songs.
You deep breathe the Spring's aroma.
For, forgiving really does beget forgetting...
Then, at a certain time,
as you walk barefoot in the awakening grass
you reach down and pick a wild strawberry
and taste it...