Sorting through bags and boxes
kipple-ing piles on the desk
all things I’ve meant to get to, but time,
time does strange things.
It’s a comfort to know even
physicists haven’t yet pinned all the shapes
The space of the future is still full of surprises.
In all my gleanings
I’ve found planners galore, so many journals and notebooks,
(half-filled and blank and no, today is not the day to read them)
magnetic list holders wall calendars larger and small.
Some may have even been gifts
though at memory’s remove
(emotion’s distancing, too)
I don’t recall now who they were meant for, perhaps even me.
The simple black planner,
The year of the butterfly.
The over-sized nature group, half-inked with dates consulted only by me.
The work schedule posted and ignored as I swore the polar ice caps sped up their melting.
The art calendar with prints worthy of framing
(if one was motivated got to the store and got crafty. One didn’t; the prints got curled and dusty.)
Some were gifts never sent,
others unused because of some misplaced notion of personal taste rather than love of the giver.
This year, there are no grand plans for crafting.
There’s a cheap planner I got on clearance at the last minute that’ll do for my work bag.
There’s a much nicer desk calendar for my desk, given with by a friend with a far brighter heart than my own.
I’ve got one wall calendar received from my car mechanic of regional scenes; thanks for my business.
I’ve another from a friend showing her faraway home, someplace I may never go.
I won’t be re-copying dates.
If anyone wants to know when I am, they can call. Maybe I’ll even answer.
(Maybe this year I’ll do something with time neither I nor the physicists have yet to dream of.)