There's a clump wadded up in the corner.
I pause as I'm sorting through the clutter,
wondering if I should just throw it out
and clear the floor for sweeping,
for dancing,
for moving about freely.
The recollection is vague--
what's inside the clump--
the crinkled letters, words,
thoughts, feelings, events, touch, tears,
the journey,
the dreams and prayers,
some of my deepest years shared with another,
soaked in my deepest tears shed over any yearning,
torn by my deepest fears
that wrapped the deepest of loves
until it suffocated.
The clump's always been there.
Sometimes I'm so used to it
It becomes part of the texture of the rugs
and the tapestries
part of the pattern
yet
indiscernible as anything more
than a clump,
a useless thing.
When I have approached,
to try to smooth it out enough to see,
to comprehend,
I've been chided,
"Just throw it out and forget about it!"
Forget about it?
Forget about what?
Can I throw out that which I'm unable to grasp?
Or will phantom clump continue to haunt,
continue to trip me up,
continue to thwart the dancing
for which I know this floor was intended?
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