Theyll always tell a story those
obscure mementos stacked on
dusty shelves, demure and silent like
the other gaudy tributes tacked
to walls in floodlit halls and if you
could suppose their lusty origins
and still allow the glory
they impute you are in thrall.
I recall that tiny pot,
a plastic flower in pink and green,
an orchid made by Ponn
whose proper name I could not
spell or even get my tongue around,
and still perceive her blinding spell
of Asian prettiness impressed
so neat upon an entity which
though I try I cannot see.
So it is with treasured objects
stranded out of space and time
and kept in silent places with
our memories intact, a focus
which brings back the feelings,
warm and sweet, vibrant with
intensity, baubles vested with
largesse to pay a tithe
we will remember with affection
all our lives.
© I.D. Carswell
