From the branches of the trees of time,
the gnarled keepers of the past.
That hold the painful,
and the ecstatic,
the relevant and mysterious.

Each leaf a little light of age forgotten.
Flickering images of solid ago.
Of Deja vu
of secret past,
Of salient meaning.

Some prefer or tend,
to simply walk,
through the rug of leaves.
Dropped at random or design.
Others imagine their source.
And recreate the tree from which they fell.

Whichever,
the recollection's like a flood,
from above.
Some to run from,
some to see,
the memories falling,
like autumn leaves,
forming the carpet,
upon which we stroll through lives.