Everyone’s a Curator

Everyone’s a Curator

Glory, glory to the holy
ordinary, black road going

white in the snow, early
flowering trees, green field

of clover adjacent to the
playground, at night,

brighter under streetlight.
Lilac-covered Rebecca,

bathtub-smudged and
crinkled, salt and pepper

shakers of Pilgrim
squirrels, buckle shoes

and bonnet and bushy
tails. The church of My

Favorite Things, of
every collection embedded

with melody and narrative,
of trinket as collection,

one memory as object
to display and shine.