Firsts and Lasts

Every day begins with a list.
First, earth then water, light
and breath and all the steps
we take to arrive at the small
places that burrow through flesh.
We sort and store the best
of it, like sorting fruit,
picking the blackest berries
from the bush leaning
out over a lake.
There’s no easy explanation
for why some pleasures
are more cherished
than others.
Memories are not
things that happened.
They’re things that mattered.
Firsts and lasts,
things worth scratching
on a wall.
Everything else is just
a footprint on the trail,
lipstick on the glass.
It tells you someone
was here,
but not who she loved.