The attic

There is an attic in my house I never go
yet all is there: the past in suitcases and wood,
in plastic, covered up in dust; the present in chaotic piles
of things that stay but ought to go.

I won’t go there, not for a while, and
in an empty corner rests the future. Or not at rest
but haunts at night and cracks the floor.
It all is there but why, what for?


Comments on: "The attic" (7)

  1. These stored memories are rich in so many ways and almost random in terms of order and, as always, you capture that so well and with a delightful undertone of pathos

  2. Nicely done. πŸ™‚

  3. with you i ask why do we continue to store our memories in attics, basements, minds and hearts? perhaps we need the comfort, the connection of objects to ones we love, perhaps we need to feel that at any time we can go there and select a letter, a photograph, a bouquet of dried roses…and yet we don’t, and the years pass…

  4. And dust collects.

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