Bottle of Sand

It drives me crazy, getting old. 
Somewhere when we were young
dozens of memories were buried-
good sticking to them like flower nectar, 
bad insisting on staying 
like an unloved, unwelcome uncle-
and still in the deep sand they sit, 
growing gritty and rough, 
aging faster than we can keep up with. 
If we were to find them,
buried like pirate treasure, 
the sand would sear our feet,
grilling the soles of our younger selves. 
I could let each grain of memory
sift through my body like an hourglass, 
and pick the ivory-colored moments
that nestle into the grooves of my 
palm perfectly. 
But that would do nothing
to the slow insanity developing
within me-
it drives me crazy, getting old.