The Luck Of The Draw Poem by Patti Masterman

Maybe you posed by the road
(In all the pictures I fantasized about,
The ones perhaps I never saw)
In a world full of stones and boulders
A world prone to forcing things together
Or apart; and stones degrading down to the finest particles,
There were none to be found, in imagination's picture.

A world apart now, standing alone
In the shade of something monstrous;
A world where grass grew in every chink
That stored a few sunny hours,
That grew creatures like mold on dropped leaves.

Had I forgotten things I never knew,
I could have forgiven that.
But memory is a mysterious cistern
That stores the precious with the profane
And remembering is just the luck of the draw.