The Memory Makers

The smell of the damp morning
kindled memories of earth mold,
as she fetched the wood
and stirred the fire anew.

Warmth crept into the chill room
as ghosts of Springs past kept watch
and in unison nodded approval
to make waves on the still-born  ethers.

The children slept;
their various ages revealed
by the length of their slumbers.
Each in his turn made thanks
in silent novenas to the Memory Maker.

Her precise movements
were liturgical practises
in acknowledgement of their presence.
They were easy to love.

The fire spit;
the fresh ham already
sent its perfume through rooms
with closed doors.
The sleeping children
stirred in deep recollection
of some thing long ago enacted.
They would soon rise and
rub sleep out of granular lids
and bid the good morning.

And she, with her own
Recollection of Remembrances,
would nod in tribute
to the Lords of Memories
who discount arthritic knees

to press on each generation of Memory Makers.

Artwork by Claudia Hallissey