Tucked seemingly
Randomly into closets
And cupboards
Are the pieces of
Our history.
Scraps of paper,
Photos,
The loose change
Of living in a place.
Pulled out and
Scattered on the floor,
They seem fragile,
Scant,
Sometimes foolish.
We pack into boxes
Those that survive
The careful quality control
due memorabilia.
The crevasse called
Divorce,
A midlife and
Ancient event,
Calves icebergs
Of history,
Events that
Float off in
Icy water.
Their exile
Is a comforting
Sigh
Of closure.
Categories: Poetry