Work and Days

"... only when everything is in place does the door open."
                                                                               ~ Ludwig Wittgenstein

Sometimes I envy 
those who can eat their soup 
straight down to the bottom
of the bowl then sit, eyes closed,
in an armchair to listen to music
with absolutely no interruption.

I look around the home
we've made— though the grout
constantly needs refreshing and one
little appliance or another always trips
the circuit, I can acknowledge it doesn't 
resemble the inside of a wrecked

ocean liner. Often, I wish
I could gather the surplus which we 
have also accumulated: dozens of socks
and rain jackets, an assortment of small 
kitchen implements; clothes and tools 
and shoes that at one time

must have been such a splendid 
idea, we had to have more than one
of each. I think of this place before 
we opened the door and crossed 
the threshold—every gleaming 
floorboard and clear 

piece of tile, cornices like violin 
scrolls; the air in the rooms 
already singing of work and days.
If you stood in the center, the years
would tumble into your hands. And 
the only thing to do is open them.

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