Return

You wind and unwind the day on spools of restlessness.

Sleep, that old dog you love, whimpers outside, nose fogging cold glass.

When you let him in, he shivers off flakes of moonlight and shadow,

snuggles next to you as you lie down again.

You are outside alone,

lifted from your bed by dark wings.

Around you trees conspire to reclaim what has been stolen.

They call out, a sound like feathers drawn across harp strings.

Your oak door pops from its hinges, 

roots and sprouts branches in response.

Your cherry tables and chairs do the same,

then wait for dawn to bring birds.

The trees ask you to take off your shoes,

dig your toes deep into the earth,

shred the sky into streamers of light with your leafy fingers.

© Jean Sampson

Trees reflected in water
Photo by Tony Russell

Dream About My Mother

I hold you in my arms 

while you are dying.

We are lying on your bed together.

The pillows are puffed like clouds 

and the blanket covers us like bath water.

Your labored breathing quiets itself

into a steady, shallow rhythm.

A harpist is  playing, her fingers

making music with the air between the strings.

You ask me where we are.

“We are in The Palace of Tranquil Longevity with

Qianlong, the Chinese Emperor.

He is bringing you your favorite foods

and your favorite books.  He has red flowers

with the scent of Byzance and he has plucked

one petal to dab behind your ear.”

In a whisper, you tell him about the good years

of your life and the friends who loved you, 

and Qianlong listens and says,

“I am happy you are ending with good recollections.”

Around the palace, the work is stopping.

Everyone is listening for your breath.

© Evie Safran, 2015

The Emperor's Garden
in the Palace of Tranquil Longevity complex
Photo by Francisco Anzola
from Wikimedia Commons

Reasons for Not Writing

A dream once told me,

“Clear out the clutter,” but

I continue to accumulate.

First, I must clean up this room.

Papers, papers everywhere...

pencils need sharpening,

files need straightening;

there are lists of things I should do each day,

lists of things I should do this year,

lists of things I should do before I die--

and do I do them?

No.

I continue to accumulate, mountains of clutter.

Even my bed gets crowded,

not with bodies

but with piles of papers.

Then there are clippings

thought to be of interest to some friend.

Quotations (oh how I love those).

I have even made a collection of quotations I like 

on 3 X 5 cards

which I keep in a box in my closet--

also full of clutter.

Clothes are the least of it.

I am thinking of ridding myself

of clothes I have not worn for five years,

but so far, they still reside

in my closet, taking up room I could use

for my files:

more quotations, more papers.

It is as though I am afraid my brain

cannot hold all those comments

by authors unknown to me.

I sometimes wonder--

did they suffer from clutter too?

I am sure, like me, they do not allow their spouses

to go into a frenzy of cleaning

in their sacred place.

That would be cause for divorce.

I think about putting up more shelves.

The ones I have are crowded to overflowing,

and I need more space.

But would that solve my problem?

Probably not....  I would just use more shelves

as an excuse to collect.

Is there help for one like me?

Others have tried.

Someone once gave me two thick pads of lined paper.

At the top of each page was the phrase

“Things to do today.”

Their instinct was kindly,

but of no earthly use to me.

I dream of an empty room,

painted white, even the floor.

It contains one chair, a small table,

an empty notebook,

and a lavender pen with a fine point.

© Peggy Latham, 2012

Two officials of the New York City Tenement House Department
inspect a cluttered basement living room, ca. 1900 ~
NARA photo, Wikimedia Commons