This was our house.
Now it is mine alone.
It is a good house, warm, with lovely bones
and flowers all around. But
it is oddly empty now, and also full
of too much memory. The past
crowds in like those loud crows I hear
competing for the roadkill down the street.
Archive of disappearing dreams, defeat,
silenced laughter, unsat chairs,
old discs nobody wants to play,
books likely to remain unread and
many, many papers I must shred—
like any good museum it requires
maintenance, archival care. But
time has worked its own perverse repair:
what was once so dear and so familiar
has been slowly turning strange.
A kind of mercy has arranged it so
love is no longer of this house.
Has love grown lesser? No.
It has grown lighter and more
portable. It lives and moves wherever
heart and mind may chance to go.