Photo by Pat Won on Unsplash

Swept

a poem of connections

It fits easily in my hand, an old friend,
this broom handle, this broom.
I place my hands where Mom
caressed it in the fingerprints of Nana.
I sweep the kitchen floor,
smoke grey porcelain tiles
where brick-shaped linoleum had been.
I feel the rhythm of the sweep –
long, short, short,
long, short, short.
Mesmerized by the motion,
I am part of the timeless guild of sweepers;
those who swept dark caves, dank hovels,
palaces, log cabins.
We sweepers, we sweep away
stale conundrums, fractured anxieties.
We sweep russet mud tracked in from feeding chickens,
pine needles, on our boots from mushroom hunting;
insults, dog kibble,
scraps of yarn,
scribbled apologies.
We gather them, bless them and take them away.