By                       Treeheart                            Boxes of clothes and old magazines,                             Dishes for cats on the floor.                    These point to Sue’s wavering will and poor means,                           And challenge her soul to the core.                       Flag of incompetence, purchased for Bill,                         "You plaid thing too long for a clown!"                      And here is the pennant announcing her spill,                             Sporting a chocolate frown.                                                                                           Sue hears the glamouring call of her book,                         In her heart she knows she’s a mage.                      She heals every hurt with a wave and a look,                         And a heart-beating turn of the page.                         No unmade decisions reside in THIS place,                             No sorting, so giving away.                        Just treasures to find and secrets to face,                 And a riveting motive to stay.                  But (sigh), back to the box, to the place where time bled,                            Each item a memory of lack.                       Put the box in the shed, and then go to bed,                            Resigned to the tedious track.                       But wait!  In her dreams, she hears the truth cry,                             Divinity comes to the fore.                      With numinous thought, Sue wings to the sky,                         As her book lays prone on the floor.                                                                                                     

 

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