Like markings in time

our fingerprints rub over ones there before,

as we fondle and marvel

statues we employ

to harbour our joy,

our 'lore.

Fading generations, together

into a patchwork, aged cloth.

Dust forms, even staining from pure

a satin white fold

on a doll

passed down the line,

but still it shines.

For it's the gleam in our eye

that catches the light

in reflection upon

the jewel at her temple.

Although one toy may seem invisible

to you,

to me

it speaks in a language I've

waited long to hear.

There's an ocean of answers

singing out to questions

we're unsure even how to form,

as we wander along a collection

of discards

in a bazaar,

one’s present growth,

simply a fading shadow

from a friend unknown.

© Sara Smerdon