Tuesday, January 19, 2010

Sometimes Things Just Start to Pile Up

Sometimes Things Just Start to Pile Up

A heap, a collection
of what you cannot discard
or shelve. The pile asks only
that you add to it, once
in a while. The layers needn't
be the same size or weight.
An order defiantly approximate,
the pile will grow like a cactus.
It requires a bit of untending,
forgetting. The pile thrives
in low light, raises itself up on
slippery magazine feet, creased
envelope hindquarters. Stalagmites,
stacks of intention and stagnation.
Later these layers will have meaning,
but for now, the piles become part
of your homescape. Your eyes
accept them as furniture, shadow.


  1. Have you been peeking in my office window? Haha! I love this poem, but I especially like how it takes the idea of "piles" one step further. They're not just a mess. "Later the layers will have meaning." That is so true in a writer's life. Eventually, all of the stacks are born into something.

  2. I'm surrounded by piles upon piles in my third bedroom, afraid to excavate, for the time it will take, each piece of paper, children's toy, or item of clothing, holding a memory, and there's more of Christmas to put away!


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