Friday, September 19, 2014

SPOTTTS Poem of the Week

My mother harried balls of dust
From under sofas, tables, chairs,
Bits of paper, single hairs,
All were gathered in her lust
For a desperate cleanliness.
Now serene I face the mess
I live in, safe with mold and must,
Storing in my attic head
All the lint and thread and fuzz
Gathered in a past I’ve shed
From the dust my mother was.
-Gail White

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