it on my calendar
to clean out the boxes,
the bins
that are stacked
in the high closet.
there is no order to things,
piled upon each other
by my thoughtless hand.
it's an archaeology dig
of sorts.
the layers of years.
sediment and sentiment,
some losing luster
others gaining.
old bills and letters.
unopened mail.
pictures of ghosts
stuck to one another.
each holiday card scattered
as if some wind
had brought it all together,
which it has.
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