The memory of a feeling is caught
like a pebble in my shoe
I turn it over and again
run a thumb across the surface
trace cracks and mineral veins
polished as smooth as rocks in a tumbler
rough edges buffed until
I’m not sure what is gritty truth and
what shines with time
I keep the memory close
fingers glide over polished skin
of the hard and perfect thought
Would you recognize it now?