A HUNDRED POEMS - XLVII

THE Smallest is a thing:

no name, barely an echo memory.

Just the same such a stain that still remains within my brain --,

the smallest thing; fragmented memories.

Of forgotten moments, whispers in the breeze,

The tiniest fragments, like scattered debris.

They dance in shadows, elusive and fleet,

But their essence lingers, oh so bittersweet.

Within the depths of my mind they reside,

Those delicate whispers I can't set aside.

A puzzle unsolved, a mystery untold,

Yet their presence persists, so strong and bold.

They weave a tapestry of moments gone by,

Fragments of laughter, tears, and sighs.

A glimpse of a smile, a touch of a hand,

The smallest thing, but hard to withstand.

They're like footprints in sand, washed by the tide,

But traces remain, impossible to hide.

Though faint and fading, they whisper of truth,

Of a life once lived, in days of our youth.

Sometimes I wonder, what if they align,

These fragments of memories, so sublime?

Would they paint a picture, complete and clear,

Revealing the story of yesteryear?

Yet, perhaps the beauty lies in their sway,

In the enigma of what they don't convey.

For the smallest thing, in its elusive state,

Invites imagination to contemplate.

So I'll cherish those fragments, no matter how small,

Embrace their presence, surrender to their call.

For within their whispers, the past is reborn,

And the smallest thing, forever adorned.

:: ~~~~~ ::

(Rev: 07-20-2016)