The quiet of the roost is suffused
In an anxiety of limbs, a tenor of flit
Movement - constant in and out a door
Up and down stairs to a bedroom devoid
Of left-brain order. A mass of loved junk
Beneath a bed of sleep - No air between floor
And springs - No Feng - No Shui as every alight
Scratches a shuffle-reshuffle of papers,
Takes of photos, tales of books still to read.
My skull swells in the swoop -
The crinkle, a tearing of paper,
Scotch tape zipped-ripped.
Nesting drawers open and close -
And I wonder about the final destination
Of what she worked so hard to gather.