Remember

My mother's closet.

Cool and silent,

as a child my own private sanctuary.

The door was ordinary enough,

a cherry door.

Insude was a mystery.

A forest of dresses,

ruffling my hair as a crawled beneath them.

Armies of shoes

lined neatly in their regiments,

as if waiting for attack.

Familiar play things

though ordered from my feet.

Evening bags hang above,

their sequins twinkeling in the dim light.

Here they are my stars.

Belts swing like vines,

tapping me as I brush past.

Carpet deep and soft on my knees

as I go deeper.

The jasmine air so still and silent.

Time stops.

As I remember.