Memory is just our imagination

One afternoon in the fall, I slipped into the sun, answering a quiet summons.

Grass parted around my boots, leaves giving way with that brittle music that only dying things know how to make.

Far off, spider webs caught the light— thin silver harps strung between branches, trembling with the breath of the world.

Cedar hung thick in the air, sweet enough to feel like memory before it ever became one.

And I wondered— how does a man hold a moment like this?

The sun blazing its gold into my shoulders, the day loose and merciful, the woods whispering their long, slow silences— all of it pierced by the faint, lonely hinge of a swing set, and the bright, bell-clear laughter of children I could not see.

The truth rose up simple and unadorned:

You don’t hold a moment like this.

You step into it. You let it have you. Because nothing we love stays. Nothing perfect can be kept. So take note. Breathe deep.

For memory— thin, trembling, imperfect— is the only vessel we’re ever given for carrying the brilliance home.

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#poetry #wyst #poetry #100daystooffset #writing #osxs