We clean the stuff off of dressers
and out of drawers and find
This is the cost of stuff.
Pictures and drawings,
cards, notes, crayon mandalas,
each one a decision.
We make piles:
Keep, Give, Throw.
We find dentist-office toys
(fluorescent bouncy balls)
birthday party favors
(fake nose and glasses, and kick balls).
We uncover homemade books, handmade-
mixed-media-collage work, each one
A new pile emerges:
Save in the Memory Box
A newer pile (we are desperate):
Find Another Spot in the House For.
A newest pile:
Mom and Dad Decide.
now soccer games,
now bags and piles
lean against the walls
and topple over…
Two little girls
learning what it means
what it means to be
A Work in Progress.
As if their bedrooms hung with vines all around
they sleep and dream of fun and frightful things,
nestled in blankets of soft straw and grasses,
bedding made of cozy sticks and silent leaves.
As if they were little wild things in their caves
they wake and stretch their jaws with long yawns,
their round faces plump with sleep,
flush with warmth, shiny with rest.
As if all the hope in the world pours from their young hearts,
swells in their squeaky voices, surges through their bright pajamas,
through their cuddly arms and furry paws
wraps itself around you,
your own heart singing hopeful with that same young hope,
even as they cover you in soft and fierce kisses,
even as you know how they will grow and soar,
how they will stumble and slide, how they will flourish and fly,
as if they could never leave empty bedrooms behind.