Little Things

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It’s not the Persian carpet,

the house , car or jewels,

but the little things

That whisper or suggest

even when they’re silent

what I little know,

Of where, when, why,

who or even what

about her life gone by:

Her medicine chest,

kitchen and pantry,

bedsheets and closets;

Eleven hard drives

in a plastic zip-lock

meticulously destroyed;

An unspent bullet

in still stale air

and cluttered dark.

Crochet hooks, a sewing kit,

items for recycling,

old photographs,

TP and paper towels,

bank statements, letters,

perfume, and lotions,

Detergents, linens;

the dog dish and bird feeder

half full.

A mail box, still alive,

when emptied, cries out

for a little more,

Until rewarded with

delicious junk mail

and collection letters.

Pills, notions, lotions,

purses, shoes, clothes,

tight hand written pages

In a lined spiral notebook

exhaling fear and voices

speaking in silent audibles.

Dry plants, and flower beds,

disconnected sprinklers,

old hoses and garden tools.

Cruel little things speak

in their sharp edged

forked foreign tongue;

Sad little things

hint of little pleasures,

big plans, and hope of love.

I follow the footpaths

through the underbrush

of her tangled troubled life.

I walk there barefoot

aware and wary of thorns,

adders, asps, and broken glass;

But the little things

leave weeping little wounds

that still wait and want to heal.

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