The sun is setting,
After a long day of
Sorting through
And discarding.
Musings on the past,
Shuttled by,
As each item
Was filed or cast off,
Of those disposed
Some were given away,
Others to recycling,
And some to trash.
Still barely a dent
In the collection,
And so much reflection
Before the action.
It’s difficult to imagine
It ever all being done,
All this accumulation,
Related to the expectation
That someday these pieces
Would be needed,
And no thoughts arose
On departure or decay,
Of all that was gathered,
Now slipping through the fingers
As water drains away
When hands are washed,
Yet, in the latter case,
There is no sense of loss,
No nostalgia or regret,
No concern or worry,
About the water’s going away.
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