These pretty things
Coming daily, going nightly
The sea breeze or shooting stars
I capture them and
Into boxes pasted with memories
They go.
My favorites taste like
Cappuccino or smell like perfume
Glittery and brightly colored they
Dance through rooms intertwined with
The laughter, tears, frustration of the
Daily things we put ourselves through.
These pretty things
I wear around my neck:
A piece of sea glass, obsidian or shell
All hold a memory of a day, place or someone’s
Smokey smell
Even if I told him to stop
These pretty things calm me
Like the Californian sunset over the Pacific’s
Brightest blue or the freshest scent
Of rain through the forest.
These pretty things pass me like a stranger
Never to be known or heard or seen again.