Dying Minutes

Yesterday lay on the floor, a pile
of memories strewn like leaves, dead
reminders of the small spaces we live
in…living…existing between the here and
the there, the then and the now

Mentally we sweep up the debris with
hand with time we let it go into the box
a place where nothing ever really goes
away, disappears…a carton so big so
small it fits inside us all

The box lives on a shelf, a place reserved
for all of the minutes before this one, a
hidden not so hidden place we ignore
we think of little…we imagine when we
forget the future is in front of us

Today sheds and drops pieces like leaves
memories only smaller, more, as they
drift combine into piles mounds of dying
minutes until a mass forms into a full
blown yesterday

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