Untitled #15

cottages, circled by lindens
maples and willows (they no longer
plant so many trees near houses now, wild
unprofitable), a stream downhill, a path and bridge
high-ceilinged rooms
where every corner
remembers you, nothing
has changed here, like everything that's lost
dusty, airless attics stuffed with
useless household goods, forgotten things, unread books
a damp cold cellar, pantries, storerooms
drawers, closets, baskets, chests
broken herbarium childhood's collections, gatherings
a sewing box with thread, needles and thimbles
a thin coral necklace, a ring, an old rag doll, a mirror
a frayed diary locked with a tiny key, poetry
o all that
is old
in the double-bottom drawer
you put it down
bit by bit, fragment by fragment
piece by piece
like the stingiest miser
looking for something
that would be yours alone, like your name
even the tiniest thing
something no one
could ever tear
from your hands