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It is Done

A mountain of possessions
sits there in her little room;
she must sort and pack them neatly,
make a path for the new broom.

Left to her own devices,
face creases to a frown.
It seems the weight of all the world
conspires to get her down.

All night she sorts, remembering
discarded memories,
packs others into boxes
as future need decrees.

When dawn breaks o'er the cottage
she packs the last without delay;
things look brighter, clear
in the light of this new day.

Precious little she has taken
from the treasures of her past,
shuts the door with no regret;
it is sufficient, die is cast.

By cherryk

© 2018 cherryk (All rights reserved)


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