Letters and papers and old photographs,
Pieces of journals and treasures in trunks,
Like shells of cicadas I look at these things,
The essence of trinkets, the presence of loss.
He wore the jacket that hangs in the closet,
She wound the knob of the old music box,
The notes play so sweetly but fade into memories
The shadows of substance where our lives crossed.
Here lies the juncture of past and present,
Where fossils of trinkets prove there was life
But collections must scatter when no longer guarded,
Becoming memorials to those left alive.