packing for France
The forecast says spring will meet you on the other end
of the flight, but already hints of it have appeared at your own address -
the mop you hurry along the kitchen floor, lemon oil sheening the bureau.
Travel stirs awake certain instincts you never would have said
you possessed, but as you layer clothes inside a suitcase, you notice how glad you are
the dust is gone, and with it the stagnant film of your neglect. The bills
get paid, thank-you notes are sent, a forgotten half-banana makes it,
at last, to the compost bin as you narrow your possessions to a space
nothing will get lost in or ignored, and you pray for a good tailwind to get you there
early, so you will catch the sun as it rises, clean and whole, underneath you.