
I sit with my souvenirs
sprawled across the floor.
Not the postcards and magnets,
bought from some store.
But the ones I collected
from mountains and sea shores.

Oh, what are the odds?
Of your work,
that you carved, sculpted and perfected,
being mere pillars
that people, years later,
just walk past.

We’ll sit all night to see
the fireflies fill the air.
Like a shower of confetti, swirling.
Till morning greets us, without a care.