Scraps

Today I found a memory
written on a scrap of notepad paper
stuffed into a folder in a corner of my desk,
never quite forgotten but
never quite on the top of memory.

I've waxed long and wide over
nights on the beach, with moon high overhead
and stars shining down to create a warmth
where none otherwise exists;
I've been eloquent over overall-clad waiters
in country restaurants with the best
fried chicken, ever, the end.
But for the little scrap of memory,
tucked away and partly crumpled,
I've never spoken a single word.

It's not big; it's not pivotal
or bright or loud or shiny.
Just a scent of reflection
on an ordinary day
a scrap of thought passing through
recorded and then crowded out
by momentary worries
and monumental vices;
yet it's a nice little memory,
and the smile it gives me
is warm and cheery, if quiet.

I think I'll tuck back in where I found it
between the folder and the drawer wall;
maybe I'll pull it out again when--
Well, I don't know. When a little scrap
of something nice
but not too grand
is what I need,
which I suppose is most of the time,
so perhaps
only when my fingers find it
and remember for me
that quiet, warm, and cheery
is awfully nice.