Sunflowers by Stephen B. Watley

Vault of Memories

Our vault of memories
opens and closes
with clanging sounds,
redefines our dreams,
rudely awakens us
in the midst of deepest
slumbers —

snaps the whip
as we make decisions
in love and business,
directs our hands to wield
or spare the rod
in the discipline
of our children —

it is a vault,
yet much the same as churchyards
where we light candles
and whisper softly
as the tallow accumulates
and we mold the putty
in our hands,
rewrite the  scripted scenes,
revisit glorious sunsets,
adorn the porches of summer
with scarlet geraniums —

we contrive perfection
from the past,
yet through this somnolent veil
reality’s briars arise,
the grown-up tears,
the laughter
of childhood —

of catching grasshoppers
and climbing fruit trees,
the dimes earned from chores,
the aplomb gained
from life’s little triumphs —

and for certain
this confidence grows
and is sustaining us:

for from this vault of memories
we draw our water
from the well,
regain our strength,
build our faith,
apply the brilliant brush strokes of the day,
and in the lavender shades of twilight
we chart out and envision
our tomorrows.

By D. G. Vachal © 2012-2013