In the beginning—time still untarnished
by tongues of friends telling tales
of unrequited passion and by knowledge
yet to be understood—pockets and purses
held the roots of recollection:
tickets torn to their stubs, clovers plucked
for their leaves of luck, valentines pasted
with tinseled love, prized dance cards,
dutifully, if not lovingly, signed by Curt,
by Joe and Jay, also by John,
catch of the class, and by Richard,
who wasn’t, but with whom I danced.
Frayed now, and fragmented, frosted
by the season of winter, still these scraps
survive, bones of yesterday.
Adding to them, I haul out my notebook,
my pad of yellow stickies, indelible marker,
preserving names of people just met,
conversations heard, things I must do,
before I forget.
* * *
Poem and photo by Mary O’Connor © 2014