Ghosts Of Me Poem by Shirley Anne Alexander

It is one bright memory.
I am nine, or maybe nineteen.
I sit peacefully in a red clover meadow.
All the years of life are colored stones,
round and easy treasures in my pocket.
Held to sunlight, each one becomes a rainbow.

Then, cracks in time break sinkholes beneath me
and a gray hand, more shadow than flesh,
reaches to pull me downward.
Years become layers of dirt,
packed hard against heart and memories.
They stack quickly, and I am soon buried
beneath the weight of too much wasted.

Somewhere, along the way down,
gemstone memories spill from my pocket,
leaving me frail and without color.
But, I search and find one grain of clear glass.
I hold it to my eyes and imagine a light.
It is one dim memory.
I am nine, or maybe nineteen.
I sit quietly in a red clover meadow.