Patina

How is it that a memory starts as a snapshot

And blurs into an impressionist image?

How is it that its sharp lines soften?

How is it that its dark colors fade to gray?

But a memory is like brass that gathers patina

That becomes part of its character,

even part of its beauty

The image isn’t as sharp

But the surface of a memory is burnished by living.

Polished and buffed by the years

Until it is its own work of art

Totally separate from the experience that evoked it

And as the image fades

The emotion of the memory outlasts its colors.