So What

Once she chased experience,
peered in corners of dark closets
with remorseless diligence,
probing at frailties,
fingering needs like coloured beads,
red for passion, purple for weeping,
black for loss threaded next to white
for nothing and yellow for terror.
But where was anger.
There was none, who could afford it.

She plucked cherries making memories
to store like staples, tucking acquisitions
into brain pockets for future digestion
like a chipmunk storing nuts
safe for the winter of old age
when she would gloat and
stack them one on one
saying she had missed nothing.

But with the racing years, stored treasure
lost its lustre, became tarnished
when exposed to the light of conscience,
became fragile with scrutiny
ground to powder with excuses.
Then was lost to even
the most diligent of recall.
Blown from the brain like chaff
from the threshing machine
leaving only to-day and to-day and to-day.

Betty Ponder