We do not always realize just what
The lathe of memory is sharpening
Until we feel the unexpected sting
Of sudden recollection start to cut
The tissue of oblivion. We shut
Our hardest passages away, then cling
To safer narratives, but lessening
Our being will not pull us from that rut.
Instead, when long-forgotten shades arise
In tandem with a sudden scent or sound,
We should salute these keepers of what lies
Rough hidden in the deeply harrowed ground
That is the soul. Such moments make us wise,
For through old pain, new healing can be found.
Penguin Poems 