We know the taste of bitter almonds, thank you,
we will not be cowed by threats of moonless nights.
This grass will grow again and laughter will rise.
Perhaps not you, perhaps not I,
but someone will remember, someone will say,
it has happened before, it can happen again.
Old dogs get to walk where they want and stop when they feel like it,
the dog owner in the park said to me this morning.
More metaphor-minded as the years freely flow,
I nearly replied, friend, it’s not only dogs who think they have a choice,
and they, at least, know the hand that holds the leash.
What are the odds that
—the odd sock, the broken earring—
thrown away then retrieved
(in the hope
that the sock will one day find its sister,
that a glue strong enough
will hold the pearl to socket
and never fail again,
that drawerfuls of photographs
will arrange themselves by date
and those inane gifts
go to charity at last)
will stop weighing us down?
Could I discard them once and for all?
Could I empty shelves and drawers,
scrub my house clean
turn it inside out,
and, once again, make room
for stuff that I’ll forget
or, this time around, cherish forever?
Thanks for sharing!