Doubled over in pain, with dozens of
advil swimming in my stomach, I
lay in bed.
Am I sick? Or just
avoiding the mext phase?
Piles of paper, mail,
books invade the air around me.
But - I leave it - wanting
to remember
the last phase. People, work,
assignments and learning, left
to read.
My life clutters my house.

Clutter? Is my life but clutter?
In my you th, we
collected clutter in the
laundry basket - carried
by little hands
distributing, depositing
remnants of weeks past --
dividing, delivering
a face lifted life.
The space no longer speaks as
a whole but many
spaces, flavored with the
life past.

Perhpas life like cooking requires layered flavors.
Some from the whole
to the part - ready to seep
into the whole again.