Every moment of the past is there, inside a dusty jar on a dark shelf,
sitting in line with the others, each a day, a week, a year.
All those jars waiting; to pull down, open, take a whiff, a little taste,
and live again in that surreal fog that is memory.
All of those dusty jars, when put together,
make up the stuff that is your life.
Writing 201: Poetry Assignment 5
Prompt: Fog, Form: Elegy, Device: Metaphor
© 2015 DM Shepherd