Memories get shrouded, faded by time,
It’s nature’s own way to cease
The hopeless longing for one who is gone,
And replace it with solace and peace.
But one can be tired of solace and peace,
And long for the fire and the flame,
And feel once again the tingle and thrill,
At the sound of one special name.
But nature knows best, and she will keep
Such yearnings down to a mutter.
Memories will hover, vague and sweet
Like butterflies wings aflutter.
© Sheila White, 1985