INTERRUPTED

Feather duster and 

dust bunnies scurry

with all the holiday rush

for all to be prepared,

perfect.

Cobwebs long ignored

finally receiving their due.

All done the way she instructed

so long ago.

And I poke around my own things,

like a left behind relative

rediscovering a richness

I didn't know existed.

Sorry for the neglect

each piece lifted,

dusted and carefully

replaced.

Words revisited

resurrecting memories,

people, places,

some not even my own.

What is it 

with this longing for

what was,

what was not?

All that could be

and never was?

Fingering of scars,

flashes of silver 

that seem to 

settle upon me

at inopportune times

Demanding

my pen to rise

and document it all

or at least come up

with a title 

for distillation later....

Yes, making art is way more compelling

than cleaning.