Bloom.

I'm packing it all up.

This box is for all the little things, the
peaceful clutter, dead pens, a family of rubber bands,
bottle caps, a nickle, soy sauce and duck sauce looking guilty--
all destined for the expectant coffin of a to-be junk drawer.

The clocks take time with them into their box.
The digital blinks out. The cat bites her tongue.
No more bells and whistles for now.

Against the wall, 10 boxes of books
stack silent universes: epic tragedies,
cloying romance, all hell and splendor,
all holding their breath, dreaming their recurring dreams.

Some ancient boxes of forgotten secrets are excavated
and dissected for reorganization and eventual re-interment.

And I have to throw so much away.

Tickling trinkets that have lost their value, faded photos
that stick to my fingers, news clippings that have lost their
legibility and relevance, kissed, folded, and crumpled into
the solemn wastebasket.

And in this graveyard of cardboard urns I am haunted
by all the yesterdays that had settled so nicely.
All the dust from the carpet now hovers and coughs
as I squint through the fallout.

I am poked and prodded by all these drowsy wraiths,
grumpy sprites, and venomous questions.

This is moving.
Also moving on.

Pieces of myself destroyed, suffocated, banished;
Scars torn open and molested, dead skin shorn,
Making room for tomorrow
In anticipation of bloom.