Dust Balls
Some consider it a shame.
That I greet dust balls by their name.
I'm accused of disarray.
I don't see it quite that way.
Maybe there's no inner space
To configure true false face.
I need my art. I crave my play,
To aid me through a too short day.
Though it's true that I may tarry
Pristine domesticity to carry,
One should note the stairs aren't blocked
Or my possessions overstocked.
I consider it a sign of life
That to this house I'm not a wife
Bonded to the things I own.
I figure that my time's on loan.
When ideas come to me,
They're the first things that I see.
I sweep the dust balls from my head
No broom to floor, paint brush instead.
That to me is satisfaction.
I now trust my own reaction.
I used to fret relentlessly
About what others thought of me.
Found that the time and energy
Invested in discrepancy,
Began to cause me so much grief
That I scrambled for relief.
This house was oh so very clean
While imagination waned too lean.
On balance scale I had to find
The workings of my inner mind.
I have those that come to me
Relaxing very comfortably
Without a frown upon their face
Me as me they do embrace.
I won't drown in dust ball mire
My situation's not that dire.
I will wield the broom of fate
But first myself I'll celebrate.
© grapher Oct. 2015
