Poem: Every. Thing.


Every. Thing.

Simple curved wood.
A few tacks.

A place at the table
void of clutter.
A pair of pencils.

No more.

In the next room a clock.
The pendulum swings silently.
Time is told.
No more.

tells you about
about what is enough,
and if you poke at it,

About this poem

After my separation and divorce twelve years ago or so, I moved from a nearly four thousand square foot home to a six hundred square foot apartment. I found simple suited me, and I have spent the time since in a constant battle against stuff. I am no minimalist, but I like things simple and uncluttered. Life included.

But stuff, I have learned, has meaning. It tells a story that is more about soul than stuff. And that is fascinating indeed.


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