Finding My Poetry

I found her in the back corner:
Hidden behind the leftover
Rolls of Christmas paper
The extra curtain rods
And my long quilting ruler

I'd begun packing--
Sorting through the detritus
That naturally grows
Pile after careless pile
With every orbit of the sun.

This is why I love Lent:
An excuse to sift and discard
To slough off the mountains
That creep into my heart and my home
From thoughtless placement through disuse.

So, each year, I give, I store,
And I find anew:
Gems hidden with casual malice
In the corners, under piles
And forgotten

What is that box?
The dust billows in
Silent testimony to her
Years of sentry duty
Never moving, never moved

Never relieved of the
Weighty duty
To which she
Joyously volunteered.
She measured time grain

By tortuous grain
Beside tomes of heartfelt musings
Old movie stubs and
Flowers pressed between
Webster's words.

I dust her off
In gentle reverence
And catch up on changes,
Events, and the unending
Rhythm of daily life.

She smiles in amusement:
The slow trickle of time
Has not escaped her.
Though rusticated, she remains
My muse.