What No Longer Matters
A few things in the back barn,
Covered in dust and dirt.
They have been here a long time.
Somewhere, sometime in history
someone thought them worth saving,
but standing here, years later,
you wonder, saved from what?
Saved for what? To take up space
in a hidden museum far from anyone’s eyes?
The things piled up, an old wash tub,
a battered bedframe, Baskets that have sat so long
they are half rotted now.
You sigh. Knowing the truth.
That once you let something go, pack it away,
it is done. You never go back for them,
somehow always surprised when you turn the corner
and they are still there.
Reminders of what no longer matters.
About this poem.
About memories. Trauma. Stuff in the attic of our homes and our souls.
The picture was taken at The Mount, Edith Wharton’s home in the Berkshires of Massachusetts. In the barn.
Tom
Quarry House 
Well spoken, Tom, in every facet. From the physical perspective one only has observe the ever-growing self storage business. On the relational front simply watch the growing discord in America, where we need to forget the past and work together towards a better future.
Amen and Amen!