Memory sifted through their hands
Like water
Or like sand—
The kind of sand that lays flat
On desert ground
And all around the blistered feet
Of those who stand and watch the sun
With faces red
And cracking under heat
Filtered through dust—
Or like water.
Like water
In trickles
Between fingers pruning with excess
Trying to keep it there
Sickeningly aware
Of the weakness in the spaces
Between their fingers
And their hands—
Their memories fell right through
Splashed around their ankles
In a shallow pool
Reflecting upward
Not what was held
But what remained.
Recollections darkened
Not gone—
But changed
Into purples and blues
Certain as midnight
Uncertain as morning.
The light from those days
Did not disappear
It bent
Casting shadows
From the figures they had formed
In the mind—
Standing still
Even as everything else moved.
Not that they lied,
They simply could not see
That the laughter of then
Would return differently
That what once rang out
Clear and effortless
Would come back softened
Carrying weight
They had not yet learned to name.
They heard the voices
Of those they knew
From long ago days
When laughter was simple
Easy as something rolling
Downward
Without resistance—
Smooth in the hand
Bright in the light
Held up and turned
Until color revealed itself
And then slipped away again.
Recollections continued
Not fixed
Not held—
But moving
Across the surface of them
As water does
As sand does
Shifting
Settling
Lifting
And falling
Without asking permission.
Their memories were old
But inside them
Something remained
Not unchanged—
But present.
A trace
A tone
A warmth
That did not belong
Only to the past
But to the shape
Of what they had become.
Memory sifted through their hands
And still
Something stayed—
Not in the grasp
But in the holding
They could no longer see.
Recollections whispered
The passing time—
Not hurried
Not still—
Simple as a falling grain
Intricate as the path it takes.
© Jill Szoo Wilson, 2026
Tag: Time
Poem: The Slow Burn of Sorrow
Sorrow rarely storms the gates.
It prefers a smaller entrance—
a match struck against porcelain,
that sulfurous whisper
before light takes shape.
The candle stands upright in its brass throat,
ivory, almost innocent,
its surface smooth as a held breath.
You light it for reasons that feel reasonable—
ambience, perhaps,
or the softness that forgives a room
its hard edges.
The flame gathers itself slowly,
a petal of fire opening and closing
with each exhale in the house.
It leans into drafts you cannot feel,
tilts its bright head
as though listening.
At first nothing changes.
The wax remains sculpted,
cool-boned and pale.
The wick, a slender spine,
holds its posture bravely.
But look closer.
There is a darkening at the tip—
a quiet charring,
the black bead forming
like a thought you would rather not finish.
It glows from within,
red as an ember hiding in its own ash.
The heat loosens the body of the candle.
Not all at once—
never with spectacle.
A thin gloss appears at the rim,
a tremor of liquidity.
Then a slow descent:
wax turning to shine,
shine turning to droplet,
droplet to a small translucent lake
cupping the flame.
You watch.
The surface quivers
whenever the flame inhales.
Tiny tides lap against the unmoving wall.
A fragrance of warmed paraffin
settles into the curtains,
into your sleeves,
into the open mouth of the room.
Minutes pass without declaring themselves.
There is no visible subtraction,
no chunk torn away.
The candle appears steadfast,
nearly identical
to the candle it was.
Yet the wick is shortening
in increments too modest
for pride.
Each second
takes a grain.
Each breath
a filament.
Sorrow proceeds this way.
It does not alter your reflection
all at once.
It warms you from the inside
until something structural
begins to soften.
You still answer the door.
You rinse the glass.
You fold the towel along its old creases.
The day goes on wearing its ordinary clothes.
Meanwhile—
inside the brass holder—
there is a geography forming:
ridges of cooled drips,
stalactites hardened mid-fall,
a white valley carved
around the dwindling core.
The flame continues its patient labor,
unaware of clocks.
It has only one task:
to be itself,
to consume what holds it upright.
From moment to moment
nothing seems different.
The room remains the room.
The table remains the table.
Your hands remain your hands.
And yet—
Hours have thinned the column.
The wick, once vertical,
bends inward,
a tired reed in shallow water.
The molten pool deepens.
The walls cave gently toward the center
as if listening for news.
You glance away.
You glance back.
Still, it burns.
You could swear
it will burn forever.
But eventually you notice
the brass plate shining through
where ivory once stood.
A shallow basin of cooled wax
holds the fossil of flame—
a curled black thread
leaning against its own exhaustion.
Sorrow leaves such evidence.
No crash.
No shattered pane.
Only the quiet arithmetic
of something becoming less
while appearing the same.
You cannot say when the candle
crossed from whole
to almost gone.
You only know
that at some unnoticed hour
the light you trusted
was busy
turning itself
into absence.
© Jill Szoo Wilson, 2026
Poem: The Curve of Time
You might as well befriend the moon–
embrace her clouded peekaboos.
And music . . .
Receive the tune–
you have no time to choose–
alone in a crowd or
with no one in view.
And a smell . . .
Wafts past your nose–
what's that?
Or who?
Perfume on skin or a place that you knew?
Pause.
No need to wonder—you know who that was—
and who you are
as nostalgia winds the second hand 'round.
"Time is a straight line," said he
"It moves consecutively,
watches as it goes
behind and below
like walking on a path
that winds into—
well—
no one knows."
"No one knows,
that's right," said she.
"Simply put, I do agree.
But there's no line to speak of.
Time bends–not like a knee–
more like a finger touching its thumb
or a rainbow finding it's spherical end
and celebrating with a gentle, 'Come.'"
Time returns to the places we've been.
One says, "That memory is far."
Another, "The moment is here to stay."
Yesterday can be put down
but the nows of that day
pop up from the ground
without notice
or sound
to delight or confound–
it depends on the soiled seconds
into which it was bound–
moments become recollections and
recollections are seeds
with a life of their own.
Promises and hope
gentleness and rage
a touch, a glance
a well-appointed room
or a half-written page–
all are sown into our skin
and find their rest in
smiles and tears
repose and toil
love and loss
freedom and cost
and the way the sunlight lay across
the earth at the end or
when it all began.
"That was back then," said he.
"That is today," said she.
The Minutes listened closely,
"There is wisdom in both."
Time smiled wryly
crouched smugly and quietly
behind an Autumn tree
waiting for the final leaf to fall.
© Jill Szoo Wilson, 2025
Jill Szoo Wilson 