and then in between remarks, <br />you fall silent, still, the eyes <br />not far away but rather, <br />seeing the faraway right here <br />and those who know you <br />or who know the feeling of themselves, <br />know where you are <br /> <br />how describe that place <br />where a lifetime’s memories are stored, <br />clean, precise, waiting, neglected, seemingly forgotten? <br />is it a castle; a linen closet; a box room, that place in the inner mind? <br />rather, it seems a library, of the books that life writes <br /> <br />and there comes a moment in between remarks <br />when the present offers nothing, so it seems; <br />and your mind leaves the assembled company, <br />walks into that quiet room, its shelves so carefully arranged <br />by someone unknown to you, a librarian <br />who knows you better than you know yourself; <br /> <br />I sit down in that green leather armchair, quietly; <br />but such the power of the memory of you <br />the pure essence of the memory of memory itself <br />that I need not reach to take that well-read book down again <br />but simply glance towards that place; on that shelf; where it rests; <br />sit, for a minute of eternity; rediscover myself; <br />then rise; walk, the back erect, dignified; <br />the stature taller for the memory of whom I am; <br /> <br />turning the smooth handle of the door as it closes, and <br />beyond all love, the watching; <br />freedom that makes the whole world live anew<br /><br />Michael Shepherd<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-library-of-memory/
