History
Galleries filled with memories
that time has sent.
They say they are not from my life
but of ancient eras,
about others.
But I look and see
my own face reflected in all
that touches me,
in tablecloths, and flowers, in hats
and
embroidery.
The stitched passing of time frames me
in circling wanderings,
observing copies of the reflection of my shadow.
I see my eyes looking at me,
while I sing with my own voice,
listening as I repeat a chant
of repeated seasons.
My hands are steady,
I know who I am.
©All rights reserved. Author Marcela Villar M. 2014
