Weaving Lace

Our memories are fickle things

that time disintegrates;

we're left with snapshots that we string

together, weaving lace.

The tightest loops play back with ease,

releasing dopamine,

evoking whiffs of deli cheese

and meats on Christmas Eve.

The thread, as soft as frosted bulbs

that fade from blue to white,

enfolded carols, laughs, and love-

a symphony of light.

Small stitches caught the bite of clove

and cousins running 'round

a table draped in cigar smoke

as thick as winter clouds.

The bobbins twisted, covered pins

like presents tied in bows-

for everyone a single gift:

a mem'ry spun from gold.