18 months since the move yet still
I plow irregular rows through the morass of boxes, plastic tubs,
and enormous black trash bags of fabric, notions, and yarn.

Today, time found me the space
to delve through another cardboard box.
Hadn’t I already unearthed all my old poetry?  

Carcasses of drafts rise through the sludge of file folders,
boxes of little silver pencil sharpeners, paperclips,
magazine pictures of birddogs for me to render on canvas.  

My stash now finds repose
in a file cabinet. The grave
I’d been digging for myself still isn’t deep enough.