When House was new it asked for filling.
We complied with staples and treats and whimsy and hope, in their turns.
Repujado’s required tools are good for nothing else. Parts of looms lay
akimbo in the nook upstairs. Clothes of outdated sizes rotate to the back
of ample closets. Business cards not used, now supplanted by better. Instruments
upgraded. Posters outgrown. A chest with toys untouched for years is colorful
behind the vacuum. Hats.
When Home comes it will demand spaciousness.
Surfaces easily wiped. Doors wide enough for chairs and beds and the wagons
with the tubes and beeps. One dresser with three drawers. The clothes coming back
from the laundry may not be ours, but we will wear them.
Breathe in. Breath out. We open our hands, palms full of oxygen and memories.
Small Poems de Terre 