There sits a white rose,
pressed and dried.
A memory of a wedding
with bright smiles,
a row of bone as white
as a rose.
A relic,
or a talisman,
or maybe just a moment.

A geode cracked by summer,
the colour of June rain,
encapsulating fairy tales
and young spirits.
The steady beat of a drum.

A ring, iridescent,
Etched with dragons
That serve as a reminder.
A sky-blue child
With stone-grey eyes,
Yearning for greatness,
There are scratches
Where it has been bitten
By gravel
And youth.

A leaf,
Small and crisp,
Barely bigger
Than a finger nail.
It is the colour
Of coming home,
Of winter-bright mornings,
Of laughter in a pumpkin patch.

A touchstone,
presenting an image of the sun.
Purple and yellow
at ease alongside each other.
A nickname, Sunshine,
and my mother’s voice.

A deck of tarot cards,
worn at the edges
but still bright.
Cold blue nights
under blankets
and reading by flashlight.
A deck of cards that call out
“See me, see me!”