Sun glistening on glass sprinkled with tiny seed pearls and white on terracotta roof tiles, prompt
something disturbing in the vault of memory resting in semi awareness on a sleepy Sunday.
.
The restless vault of treasure, suspended like the fine rain in warm summer air, seeps from the comfort of joyful to a vague quickening of pulse, a bitter-sweet tightness of skyfall, the knowing.
.
The knowing that moving on is every bit as shocking as it ever was, that pearls will forever hang in the air, pause momentarily on glass, on uncovered hair and slide down naked faces.
.
And sun will catch them, glisten and sparkle through them, sleepy Sundays will overflow with them, laden with brazen memories never content to move from spotlight to shadowed vault of treasures.