Pelted, precious stones

While I am sleeping,
The past comes stampeding
With summer nights and rainy days;
The storm doesn't pass
In fact, it seems to last
Until I've heard everything that nostalgia says;
Memory mottled with half-smiles
And farewell whispers
Blow about in gusts of gold
Reminiscences narrate their pretty foibles
And precious little stories get told.
By the time dawn breaks
Gemstones lay heaped in a sharp, dazzling lot
I wake up to pick out a jewel
And be adorned with a stampeding thought.