Comforts. . .
There is a comfort
in being surrounded
by familiar things.
After a lifetime of use,
they are as old friends
needing only me as a companion.
My books follow my travels
begging not to be left behind.
Only those I have visited often
can lay claim to shrinking space.
My tablets, journals, yellow pads
and ringed ones need me to keep
forming words like a forever
love letter to mind companions.
There will come a time
when the need for even these
will cease and the red pen
will no longer underline
newly revealed insight.
For it will have all been said
and remembered.
The tablets will be filled,
except for a loose thought roaming
the Ether looking for a like mind
to grasp it and fill in the
fresh, forgotten ledger
lying unattended and waiting. Unfinished.
2 responses to “Comforts . . .”
I so enjoy reading these poems of where you are now Veronica. It’s not a place I have access to and I find your wisdom, and trust a comfort.
Maria, sometimes there is only anger and balk when facing shrinking abilities and times. But there are the grateful times also that a life has provided the classroom necessary to grow and to be fulfilled. And hopefully has taught what are the important things in life. Thank you for your thoughtful comments.