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Milton Crum Poems
We’re cleaning house, but it’s not spring cleaning; it’s autumn cleaning— the autumn of our lives.
A stack of calendars marking the years of our lives; the stack is downsized until none remain. We cannot look at them before their time; we cannot know how many are left,
Does It Hurt?
Does it hurt you, Mother Earth, when we slice your flesh to insert the structures in which we live and work?
Comments about Milton Crum
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821)
We’re cleaning house,
but it’s not spring cleaning;
it’s autumn cleaning—
the autumn of our lives.
In our minds, we’ve cleaned out
notions of boundless vigor,
prospects of doing it all,
with endless time to do it.
We’ve admitted a loss
Out go the trail maps
of hikes anticipated,
but never taken,
of exciting terrain
Clear the shelves of books
meant to be read or read again,
when there was time.
But the time never came,
and now we know