Trinkets Poem by Anna Wakefield

'Okay so you see?
You-you see this on the left,
This pocket watch,
The face, it tells more-.

Eh? No, no. Fine, I guess.
Or what about this plate?
Hand painted chi-
… No, just one, not four.

Right, look, please,
I've only this left -
A jar of dirt, I know -
But it's about the lore.'

All who look, never see.
They scoff at these kept memories.

The watch? A token.
A bond with my mother,
Forever unbroken.

She passed,
Many years ago now.
And her face is getting

Harder.

But the face of the watch,
The face.
I can hear the tick,
And remember.
Remember her rituals around the holidays

This was the last thing she gave me
Before she was gone.

But that last year -
'He's been! He's been! '
At 5am
That memory is warm

The plate is part of a whole.
See this wonderful woman,
This strange, amazing ball of light
... Loved chickens.

We sat, I remember
Wading through nostalgia.
I swung my legs off my chair,
While she hummed out the window.

It dawned on us then,
Just how crazy this
Clustered chicken collection
Had grown.

I remember 250,
I remember your face.
You laughed until you cried,
With gusto, and haste.

The dirt is last,
But the tightest I hold.

See you always wanted
To give me a world
Filled with magic
And hope.

You found a site,
'Historical Pirate Port'
Closed off
and condemned.

You shimmied under chicken wire
Put dirt in a jar
So I could hold some magic

For when you were afar.

Quirks,
Rituals,
Memories and more
You are what
Traditions are for.