I wander this house, unable to finish one thing
for beginning another.
Tasks call out fulfillment
from every corner,
and I follow their songs, a willing gypsy.
These are the auspicious days.
On the doomed ones,
I finish everything,
with precision
with precision
and certainty of judgment.
When there is space between the minutes
to watch the way
the kitten’s soft white belly rises and unfurls
in the warm pool of winter light
through an unwashed window,
things get done despite me.
The closet piled with holiday anachronisms--
an elf-bear tangled in crepe turkey feathers,
an emerald tinsel clover--
closes, with only a bit of extra force.
The piles of unread books
speak their truth ineffably
into the light of a dwindling fire.
All will be well,
every manner of thing will be well.
This house I have assembled--
picture frames left unfilled,
unmade beds bearing the twisted shapes
of filed-away dreams--
this holy temporary encampment
will melt away.
In fact, it’s already happening--
chipped dishes,
the serpentine crack halfway through its journey
from ceiling to floor,
pillows releasing their lumpy hearts
at weakened seams--
trace evidence of the always
and someday unraveling.
This poem was actually written some time ago by Pablo Neruda, with typical quotidian-ethereal brilliance.
