Dark corners, dust-covered shelves,
cobwebs clinging to the ceiling in path worn rooms;
boxes and bags so long ago forgotten
their treasures have no names,
no memorable point of origin.
Stacks, pillars, towers of books
climbing upward, leaning precariously,
flirting with gravity;
years of words, of wisdom,
of worlds far away and long ago, chronicles of lives lived,
lies telling truths and truths betraying lies.
Her eyes wander over photos of days gone by
loves past, lives lost.
Sometimes she forgets what she wants and why she wants it,
sometimes she forgets where she left this or that;
she never forgets those faces, those loves, those days.
She smiles over a cup of tea and the honey of silence;
resting among the treasures in the museum of her life
finding peace through the hours,
enjoying the sunshine in the garden window.
She nods off, resting in the comfort of home,
weary from memories of a richly lived life.