As I scrape the yard clean with the rake
I imagine all the things I would make,
out of wood. With my father's tools I inherited.
Like him, I'd carve sunsets with the grain's colors
directing just where a cloud or the horizon is.
I'd sculpt spoons, then cats, then horses . . .
the tools gather dust as I gather leaves.

While I'm scrubbing the tub and sink,
my mind wonders, and start to think,
about stories, fantasies, and people.
I have a dozen books in my head,
fiction, non-fiction, stories of children,
of lessons I've learned and folks I've known . . .
Then I move on to the next bathroom to clean.

As I vacuum the carpet and mop the floor,
I think about places I want to explore.
I dream of pyramids, of the city of Prague,
of joining the Peace Corp and teaching others to read,
rescuing orphans in China, India, or Romania.
Go off the beaten path and see how others live.
The floor was sticky, and what is that stain?

As I fetch the mail I see a landscaper across the street,
with a billowing leaf-blower, our gazes meet.
I wonder what he thinks about all day.
We look up at the trees as they rustle in the breeze
and scatter more leaves, undoing our work again.
The process goes on, cleaning and fixing.

At least I got one poem down on paper.

03/09/2007

Author's Note: I really don't like cleaning, or raking leaves unless they are for a pile by the swings for my kids to jump in. There are so many things I would rather be doing. But as most middle class folks, I have a lot of stuff thus a lot of stuff to tend to. I was a good girl today. I worked from 4 a.m. to 1 p.m., then after picking up the kids from school I raked, then made dinner. I count myself extremely lucky that I own the lawn, and it is my house I am cleaning instead of someone else's. Maybe I will save up my money and buy an iPod for myself. Sometimes poetry is inspired, sometimes it comes out during mundane tasks.

Posted on 03/10/2007
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