We are rearranging the living room.
Ottomans and bookshelves spin and puzzle
in new space. Sunshine kindles the first bloom.
The heaviest things won’t move. They nuzzle
into corners and collect metronomes,
lamps, and origami. I wish I could
play piano. The things that fill our homes
should fold up tightly when not understood.
Yesterday, the spring sun drove a long way
across planted grains and was satisfied.
This morning thunders. Breezes and rain play
in the dry earth, taking divots so wide
I can place my palm inside, but don’t know
if tomorrow they'll be crawling with ants.
When we roll up the rugs, we see furrows
of crumbs, all that we’ve left behind and can’t
sweep up. Every spill has a consequence,
every pattern leaves an indentation.
I find comfort in the monotonous,
but each scratch longs for a new creation.