years have rolled on
to memories
past is seeping in
through cracks of hearth.
stories I read and remembered
are read by four generations
past, so much has changed
yet, not my heart.
I thought they were mine-
the poems, the rhymes,
the bed, and the garden,
until a younger wave
swept over.
I tried to cease and
lock the moments
in between
the frames of photographs
but that too slipped.
so, now,
I hold nothing dear
because today or tomorrow
they will belong not to me
but I still wish
they belong to somebody,
the things that are
dear to me.
