surround me with the old. Pile up

books read and doggy eared, plop down

in the corners cushions well-worn from

long, meditative sits. Settle into

my fingers a mug that a grandmother across

the city once clutched in her palms as she

listened to the news and peered out a fog-capped

window onto the lonely street. Gather the rocks,

for they are the oldest and scatter them

like wisdom waiting to be plucked up

and given the gift of action. I’ll collect

from my home all that is new and

bring it to the thrifting shop, label them

used, and let them become interesting

to someone else searching for this feeling, too.

The trees all know my name, somehow, and

every path that goes far enough into their wake

leaves behind windy whispers of stories

told and ages once lived. It is there

I feel as though I have arrived

in the real moments of living. The moments

worth living are porous with the past

seeping through; it would benefit

us all to remember that.


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