Relic
Poets write of rust, decay, time wearing out or thin,
but time’s spin makes for a preciousness too, imparts
like dew, an aura, as seen around
Ty Cobb’s dentures, still firm, at The Baseball Hall
of Fame, George Washington’s at Mt. Vernon.
Even the belongings of the obscure
acquire the gild of treasure–the small green
rubber boots bought as a joke for my dog
found fifty years later in my mother’s garage.
And then there are objects that become relics
even before time’s passage. I think of
the chocolate Easter egg, kept in the freezer, that my grandmother took a nibble
from every night before her fall; she’d gotten less than
half-way through; my mother saved the remainder, still foil-wrapped
in blue, for years afterwards, the surface of the
chocolate whitening like the cataract over an eye, making it
harder and harder to see what was once so clearly
in front of you.
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