the accordion

whether the accordion stays or goes
becomes a matter of friendship –
and of the necessity or needlessness
of tokens of attachment

a heavy load can make for a longer road,
and other favors await a verdict –
whether box or bin, either out or in,
feeling and hand both hesitate

though the heart of the gift remains whole
in spite of this inquest –
true affection demands no keepsakes,
and gathers no dust on its bellows

© Sarah Whiteley

I am in the midst of downsizing for the big move next month. I find the days sliding by at an alarming rate, with still so much to do. It will all get done, I am certain – after much hard work and lots of letting go of the things I truly do not need. Whether the accordion makes the move with me? I’ll be sure to let you know. 🙂

paint

I can’t scrape away
the last of my paint

just can’t

though I’ve been
peeling myself away
from these walls
seven years now

new walls, yes,
can wear my color

it’s yours I’ll miss

© Sarah Whiteley

counting cigarettes

bare feet on the damp boards of the rain-soaked porch

I try counting how many cigarettes are left

not in the packs between us, leaning on the rail

but in moments left to us in this sacred space

where we learned the measure of our lips

and the direct relation of hands to laughter

no use pouring coffee before it’s been made

this now for now, with you will more than do

© Sarah Whiteley

time once more to bloom

that late August afternoon
after sweating unwieldy boxes
up the three flights alone
I paused for a moment’s rest
and touched the ache of this space
not yet made my own
but thought at least how lucky,
to have the hopeful green
of a locust tree to nod in at me
not an hour later three men came
with their coveralls and chainsaws
to cut back the branches –
the cruelty of regulatory topping –
I tried not to take this
as irony or prophecy
and in spite of our crude pruning,
June arrived awash in petals,
white and brisk with bees
and the inquisitiveness
of hummingbird pairs
and October blew skiffs of yellow
adrift on winds that waved
as they passed the windows
and now this second April
as window neighbors
(we still politely nod)
not a sign of swelling twig,
nor brightness of bud,
but the brown bones
of last year’s unfallen leaves
still cling reluctant
while I watch and wait
for Spring to remind and wake
that inner ache which tells us both
it’s time once more to bloom

© Sarah Whiteley

You’ll have to forgive me if I’m a bit on the quiet side in the coming weeks. For those of you who don’t know, I work in the accounting field and now is a very busy time for me at work. Which means, unfortunately, that I am often too distracted to keep up with writing and reading. So this may be the last post until I’m on the other side of this deadline. But I’ll be back in a couple weeks to catch up on all the new posts I may have missed.

one step closer

I do not inhabit this place
though I walk the rooms
shake out the sheets
and chase the dust
from the corners
where it congregates
every time I look away
this strange floor feel
beneath bare feet
even my toes know
it is not home
without worn wood
and moldings older
than I
once more
the partitioning of boxes
the categorizing of myself
and what can be stored
which pieces I need
in order to breathe
one step closer
one floor nearer
to home

© Sarah Whiteley