When we moved they were lost,
the fortunes I had saved
that seemed to mean something.

“Suppose you get what you want,”
read the first one; I taped it to the wall,
then each new one of significance
under that, like a ladder leading to the first.

There is no one here who knows me.
The trees on the manicured streets are small and bare,
there are no songs in the branches.

Someone brought cookies; rang the bell
as I was digging in boxes for the small
clip that held them tightly—the small,
flags of inspiration, steps I freed from their brittle shells.

— Rick Maxson

This poem is offered as part of our December theme: House & Home

T. S. Poetry

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