Old Poetry - 12th April 1999

Spring was...
six months ago.
The time
for cleaning
is not past,
but overdue.

I must sort through
my belongings,
I must throw away
my rubbish,
I must set aside
my needs,
And show all
my beautiful things.

Something of mine
is missing.
I know vaguely where it is -
I gave it away.
But for all
my blood
I cannot be
an Indian giver.

I have not
forgotten,
but I had...
Memories.
What
shall I do
with
my memories?

Fusty boxes with jammed lids,
move on
Snap shots across years,
move on
Wounds and failures in whirling pools,
move on
Joy:
pure and simple
Move on...

Pack my bags
for a journey
of an unknown
duration
to an unknown
destination.
What
shall I take
I know not
where?