007 Spring Cleaning Poem by Lori Boulard

It is time. Time for changes.
Time to open windows
and let breezes of inspiration in,
sweep out the echo of lingering laughter,
and wipe away the stains of family, friends
and Shiraz tipped by the fire.
Put to sleep in their albums snapshots
of a time not wasted. Pack up the waste.
Set it out for prompt and permanent removal.

And while we’re at it,
let’s place the breakables
like India up on the shelf, careful
not to bend the corners.
Give the Middle East a good dusting
and hang Thailand out to dry.
Drip dry, please, too fragile for machines.

Europe we will leave for now.
The cat continent, self-cleaning in little licks
from time to time, when necessary.

Africa will remain in the attic,
saved for some other time.
Some tasks simply cannot be tackled at once.

Then there’s America - the dreaded basement
so easily ignored until impossible-
closets stacked to unrecognizable,
boxes of issues too frightful to unpack,
and having no real place besides.

For now leave the big things.
Stack the boxes neatly in the corner
for another day. Throw their concealing
blankets in for a good wash, followed
by a gentle but firm beating out on the line.
Tough love is good for rugs
and representatives.

Many chores remain as they always will,
but when these few are finished
we can sit back, sip a tall glass
of satisfaction in the sun, and enjoy
a little peace, if only for the moment.
We will always have next spring,
or so I am told.