Not to nudge it from our thoughts,

But to bury it celebrating

The sordid with the beautiful,

Mourning it at leisure,

Longer than for our brief guests,

The innocent, disappointing flowers,

With which we speak to the dead.

We are made of our memories,

Our future steps tied to them

By our need for order and progress

And through the odd logic of the heart.

They are the lens through which

We see everything new

And the prism that sets

Each fresh emotion apart

In its still poorly understood beauty.

And so they answer such questions:

Do the winter woods block the sunrise

Or abound with infinite filigree?

Is the chilly beach barren and bleak,

Or washed by the source of life and wealth?