The Remains of Memory

The shards of white, glittering glass, lying on the hard ground
remind me of my delicate piecemeal memories.
Broken up by age and scatterd in the slipstreams of time
they lie buried deep in the caverns of my mind
and are retrieved when a shroud of blue envelops me in its warm embrace.

I stop and stare at the shards glowing bright in the noon sun,
doing a dance of light and fury.
Ever so carefully, I make my way among the shattered, scaterred glass
so as not to disturb their mocking tones, their smug self belief
that, after all, memories are like shards of glass,
bright from afar, but painful when embraced from close.