The Gatherer

On National Poetry Day, I gather—leaves, memories, and moments—into gold.

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I collect red leaves,

Nuts and fruit;

Echoes of harvest gold.

In threads drawn into a single weave.

A gatherer of thoughts;

Of family,

Friends,

And joy.

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Corn falling into a wicker basket

Grain chatting with the wind,

Leaning to scythes.

Soil kissing pulled roots.

Jars in rows, autumn in glass.

And the harvest turns—

Day by day.

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Photos strewn on the ground;

Faces vivid in the mind—

Warm voices like lullabies in the ear.

Fireflies cupped in eager palms

Conversations on torn pages.

I grasp—

Laughter.

Faces.

Time.

In my hands.

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I collect not to keep,

But to bring forth,

Stringing beads into a necklace of days,

Weaving a quilt from time’s strewn cloth,

I take what stays

When seasons go.

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I collect memories

My arms aching, but heart full—

To live,

To love,

A basket of gifts

Of love

Of life

Of gold.

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Please find a book of my horror microfiction, Echoes in the Dark, free for download here.