Ashes of ourselves, blowing across the floor
Seem to pile and remain forever in the fireplace corner.
No matter that we sweem them up
and pitch them out the back door-
They wind up back
just as before:
Drifting in, on logs of mossy memories,
silent and unnoticed,
To make us stop
and study their
jilted presence once more.
Endless nostalgia and hurt
Cramp space for our new chairs....
These ashes cling to the mirror,
And leave us looking for comfort.