A poem for a packing up a house

June 16, 2015

Laid, milled sheets, a head to rest
and a place is held to where
the while is, and that’s the least

Concern to have. Being takes care
of itself. Receipts, tree bark,
ATM slips, rough scraps, or rare

Japanese paper; the mark
that is on it is the thing, not
the fiber. The end will hark-

en each bit: through fire, dry rot,
crumbling dust, recycle bin,
as bird’s cage lining, forgot-

ten in a drawer, or worn thin
by passing time. The weaver
who waits for the perfect skein

To make a tapestry never
gets anywhere, and mistakes
matter for idea, or takes
time to be other than ever.

The wine in the bottle of 101
was sweet and sustaining,
overflowing, crushed to
liquid beauty by hands and
feet of the beloved, and now
that the container is empty,
the hollow sound intoned is
a bell of memory treasured,
not a desperate drunk’s
morning after longing
for just one more sip.

(On this date in 2009)

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