I should be packing

I should be packing
but the dinner dishes are crowding the sink, barely rinsed
and I am here
tucked under an afghan
reading Walt Whitman to my soul’s content
You see
every sweater and trinket and plate
has a story …
pj’s and shoes and earrings
the Djembe and Palestinian tapestry
wheat from the farm
and little grandma’s pie plate
the scarf my friend brought me from Paris
a year before she died
I know inanimate objects
don’t remember
but if they could, i think they’d have tales to tell
of birthdays and love making
of 2am nursing and cold winter rains
of unexpected visitors and counting the holes in the moon
and listening for God
and failing
and falling
and such unspeakable joy
the most precious of all
the treasure I couldn’t live without?
the girls’ love notes
from when they were 5
and 7
All of these layers
that will never be shed
I can hold in my heart with a melancholy sweetness
and though leaving
they come with me
and in me and
all around 
I am grateful
and happy
and blessed
So for now, I will just let my heart feel
This entry was posted in farm, happiness, Poetry, Reflections, Spirituality and tagged , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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