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.