Sunday, May 9, 2010

At first I thought this was a "silly" poem ... it's growing on me.


Resisting consumption becomes me
as well as my living space.
Minimalism has its place
it seems, in my home. See
the walls are not without art
the floors are not bare
in fact, the rugs I care
for are Turkish at heart.
I work from my chair, legs
resting on Eames’ ottoman
my iBook busy as I am
until I prepare to exit
my front door. Happy I
sprung for the glass door
that always presents more
bounty for my happy eyes.
Less is the key here
I still have too much
I find myself clutching
my favorite cashmere,
books, plants, bluejeans,
coats, jackets, too keen
on my favorites, I fear.
Minimalism has its place,
yes. But maybe not here
after all. Maybe here
is too small a space.
I’ll aim for compact
and tidy, neat, clean.
An uncluttered routine,
that’s my contract.
Two hundred square feet
One person, one cat
Six jackets, one hat
Twelve dresses, complete
half my closet, a dresser
that’s all, no mess here
I promise, replete.

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