Time, though spent, is collected.
Each moment a marble.
Days, hours and minutes frozen.

Who among us is not prone to nostalgia?
Quiet afternoons when we look back-
emptying out the jar-
Spreading the globes onto the carpet
Or placing a few in the palm of our hand
So light can make it sparkle

Each has its own story to tell.
There is no favorite.
We cherish each and every one.

Log in or register to write something here or to contact authors.