Our beloved belongings
Clutter to someone else
Without us no trace of the memories
We carry with us every day
Through the noise we handle -
And that handles us
Every so slowly into a new noon
Where another clock will be ticking, pulsing, waiting...
In a room with a door, with a plaque with a name
Our name
Our room
Our space to store little gesture, subtle things
That mean something only to us
Like a secret language
Mistaken, too often, by its apparent randomness
Or lack of relevancy
However, random they are not
And irrelevant merely as much as we are