memories are like droplets of water:
slipping from the tender morning leaf,
the dew trails slowly to the tip
as a force so natural brings it down
until it rests carefully and waits to fall —
in the hands of time and wind.

memories are like strips of aged film:
buried in a box of faded colors,
unintentionally ignored and forgotten. 
then, new devices are used until
one reminisces and uncovers them.

memories are like wooden bridges between mountains:
unstable; trembling in the cold air,
the old rope frays and reluctantly lets go
hanging by one side, the weight doubles
held by a looming fear that the thread will snap
and the once sturdy structure disappears forever.