I reach into my pockets
of clutter bound memories.
A giant tent covers me.
I am inside the pockets
of my mind,
both right and left.
The scale is mammoth
but some how off kilter.
Flooding memories fill this tent
with a stale exhale of awareness.
Yet all of these experiences
are still radiant heat
from this handling.
I pull out handfuls
of storybook experiences.
I stare at them
and reflect a spectrum
of emotion
that sometimes glitters
but often times ends as flat.
I am touched from then,
for either way they were.
And I am truly tethered
to what I have had in hand.
But I make my hands free
for the now.
I give them mindfulness
as my eyes looking forward.
These hands of the mind,
they renounce
their pocket searching skills.
I follow their gestures willingly.
Feeling for the now
is my touch with life.
Treasures only keepsake gratify
as the past is remembered.
Thus, the death of small,
for there is only one now,
feeling out for me . . .
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