The undoing coming, that comes for all - a poem(?)
I put myself to sleep last night with plans
of little things put off for months and years,
things that irritated when passing by them,
like removing the wire foot fence barriers
put down to keep dogs from exploring out,
dogs long ago lamented, the current one
not needing them:
Two pliers, wire cutter, garden stool, sun hat,
thinking short shrift, only to discover
the difficulty and length of the entwined wire,
and how exhaustively complicated
had been my effort back then...
Finally done, then on to the other task,
pruning to the ground the spiked bush
that had stabbed and bled me while mowing
close there the last three times.
It's the season of Undoing, having started
a few years past, divesting possessions,
painfully the books, but whatever mundane
tools, utensils, furniture, yet
precious knickknacks, bestowed
to whomever without the history and care.
But even foliage, trees, to make it easier
to mow without obstacles to prolong
the cutting while the years left allow.
Growings planted and replaced,
over thirty years, no more planting.
The Undoing that comes for all in different
forms and extents. Those who thought
their whole mission was to propagate,
amass, and tend, and calling everybody
else "selfish," finding what they call
"Downsizing," beginning with the
"Empty Nest," ostensibly lamentation,
not secretly joyful and liberating
for that secretly coveted "selfishness"
of Self?
The season of Undoing, of things and
doings and pairings that all go
out of style and secretly always were.
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