Standing here, my pockets full of memories,
I select a treasure for pondering:
a mossy twig with a bit of frail lichen.
Jagged wood pokes against my finger;
the moss crumbles to dust at a touch.
Time really doesn't stop--not even inside us.
Recollections change with distance and mood.
And always they leave that hunger for substance--
that heaven scent that will never be enough,
being only the harbinger of something
infinitely more solid and sure.
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