As I walk I continue to pick up leaves and carry them home in my pockets. Their shapes inspire form and line, architecture and pattern. Their shadows might cross my face or heart. They might express the darkness of a crow’s wing or reveal history stored in the pockets of an old coat; saved shapes still holding hope. After I take each leaf out of my pocket I fold it into the pages of books like small boats who are keepers of memory, color, and contour; vessels that keep going.
I wake like a hand on a handle. Tomorrow Marches on the old walls, and there Is my coat full of darkness in its place On the door. Welcome home, Memory.
–W. S. Merwin, excerpt from Recognition, in The Moving Target, 1963
(Full poem at number 38)