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Restored to memory,

As the dawn breaks upon my sight,

I recover meaning

From the shadows of the night.

Memory, open the door

To so much and so more,

Hold the door open,

Now that I have awoken;

Not that I slept much at all.

I have lain awake

More than half the night,

Wondering how we gather meaning

From all the vestiges of seeming,

So we read our life like a book.

Again and again we look

For the meaning of a smile,

A tear, a laugh, a cry.

And memory, careful memory, supplies the answer why.

Open Sesame,

You have to say,

But it is no use forgetting

The word to unlock the hoard.

As the pen is mightier than the sword

Because it is able to record,

So the paint brush can do this as well.

The memory is one of sight,

Born fresh and new upon the light.

Krys, a Niagara artist, has been able to recall

Across the passage of the years,

That time when she was a child

And when she first smiled

To see the apple blossom break

Into snowy clusters to burst forth and shake

Along the gnarled and twisted boughs

Of the many orchards on her family farm.

Away and away the trees rolled

In green clumps and ridges,

Quite green again, once the blossoms fell,

After having burst forth in such an orgy of white.

She remembers it so well

That she has been able

To tell it like a fable

Of Creation on its first days,

When God turned His gaze

On the world He had just made

And saw that it was good.

That is its meaning

Contained in shape and seeming,

In every shade and hue,

Old, preserved in the mind,

And eternally fresh and kind.