The Things I Carry Forward

I gather what the years have scattered—

kernels of light, loose in the furrows

of ordinary days.

Some are the size of breath,

small enough to slip into a pocket:

the warmth of a hand held too briefly,

the amber hush of late-autumn sun

resting on a kitchen table.

—

Others are heavy, orchard-full,

weighted with the sweetness of endings.

My grandmother’s voice, soft as sifted flour,

telling me to take only what grows true.

The way the wind once loosened

a field of wheat into a gold trembling

how I wanted to stop time right there,

to keep every shining blade.

—

I gather not to hoard,

but to remember what made me.

Every seed is a story,

every story a little lantern

to hang inside the dark.

—

There are moments I lift carefully,

as if they might bruise:

the first forgiving,

the last goodbye,

the sudden knowing that love,

even in its quietest form,

is a harvest worth returning to.

—

And so I bend to the soil of memory,

hands open, heart weathered,

gathering what still glows

what the days have left me,

what I choose to keep.

—

For in the end,

to gather is to honor

the living that shaped us,

and to carry forward

the light that remains.