Moments;
Snapshots, really.
Little pockets
Of time; in time.
A window brief
Or overly prolonged.
Calling forth
A fount of emotions.
Wistful smile
Tattered tears
Uninhibited joy
Considered frowns.
These,
We treasure;
Or are in turn
Tormented by.
Each moment,
Little fragments of
Memory, ill-fitting
Puzzle pieces
Haphazardly strewn.
Separately,
Of itself, speaks
No more or less.
Yet in its entirety,
Of greater import
There ain’t many.
Tis a life
In the making;
A mosaic
Most wonderful.
Truly unique,
These moments,
Accumulated;
Experiences and
People, Life and
Death, Joy and
Sorrow, Triumph
And tribulations.
They shout!
Nay, they trumpet!
They proclaim,
Exalt even,
This fragile being,
Exceedingly precious:
You. Me. We. Us.
Lives, broken
Into each tiny
Moment
That shaped us
As surely, as a potter,
Clay.
Moments,
Little windows
Of time.
To be savoured
In the quiet of night;
Toasted to
In the presence of friends;
Alluded to
In the language not spoken.
And finally,
To be reminded,
To remember,
To pay tribute,
And homage
To those who:
Made us,
Will always be a part of us;
In years gone by
And years to come.
Moments
Moments
It is only the moments.