I wish I could store memories in bell-jars
Sitting on a shelf,
Ripe to be remembered

Filled with the thick honey-preserves
Of ten-thousand summer nights
Lit briefly by fireflies,
Skies punctured with falling wishing-stars

The ease with which we could return,
Seeped in pickled nostalgia
By opening only one lid

Filled with the powdery preserves
Of a hundred winter evenings
Snow falling in opaque white sheets outside,
While we, obliviously,
Positioned in front of a boiling fire
Devouring poetry as though it were our life-blood

Imagine?
Release the contents of a life
By cracking open a bell-jar?