MEMORY HOUSE

Locked away
in my memory house,
behind velvety doors
of penetrating silence,
are liquid gold reflections
of limitless energy
glowing brightly,
like shards of love-light
beneath a crescent moon.

Memory is a gift;
like knowing someone
of permanent tenderness
or being loved
from the beginning;
like having a purpose
or growing comfortable
in your own skin.

Memories,
greater than the depth
of an orchid or a rose,
like the mother of my spirit
or the sister of my soul,
channel me dreamlike
to the center
of my center,
before we were enormous
together,
before I was me.

© JOHN PISCATELLA