The cloudy coldness
blows memories
into me
like the scent
of baking bread.
This light
looks just like the light
on my mother’s face
as she let me try on her clothes
while she talked on the phone
and smoked
sometime in late 1979.
Light does this.
It conjures
and then frames entire moments
    mornings with lovers
    afternoons with mothers
      an endless trail of puzzle pieces.
Sometimes
the light shoots in
and pins me like a bug – 
to the depths of my aching heart.
Other times it unties my wings
and lets me fly
high into the hallowed halls
of memory.



©    sheabreauxwells  2002