days that outgrow

I have held days in my minds eye

in the earliness of memory,

have turned them this way and that

to see moonshine reflect off crisp edges.

Some days, I set like jewels, place

above the rest on pedestals

to preserve their prism sharpness.

I’ll return here again and again,

take them in my hands and remember.

But days are not bones, touching

is not good for them, touching

worries away crispness, touching

deposits oils of change. And I think

I have ruined them. But they are simply

velveteen, softened and molded

to fit the ebb and flow of my fingers,

glowing with muted beauty like

seaglass, until you almost can’t tell

what they once were. They have

become rounder, greater, alike in their

comforting familiarness but wholly

unique — they have a life of my own

creation, an ever-changing wholeness

that is truth but not true, for which

the day was but the seed for a pearl.

And perhaps they are bones, after all,

my touch keeping them alive and vibrant

even as what really happened fades

in the face of story and legend and

what is crisp becomes soft, and

what is supple becomes lined, and

my nest of living moments grows

and I learn to welcome each

new day as a friend just waiting

to awaken.

Sarah Bricault has a PhD in neurobiology and currently works as a postdoc in that field. Her fascination with the mind and how it processes information often finds itself in her poetry, as do themes related to mental health. Sarah's work can be found in Brown Bag Online, High Shelf Press, The Poeming Pigeon, Beyond Words, Wingless Dreamer, and elsewhere. For more information on Sarah, check out SarahBricault.net.