Nooit Is Ons Verlate
(Vi’ al my mense wat trek)
Packing, sifting through. Weighing up what to pass, let go.
Reflect. On people and things. The memory
of the how and when. Your eyes tears from dust and grit
and a laugh now and then at the silliness and wisdom
of the diary-like uncovering of our spirit’s
tickling whisper of what we thought was
so terribly needed. Once. In the, emptying rooms the blessed tearing
of brown, sticking tape. Its seal, binds a committed boxing-out
of the unessential. Then, a quiet breathing in: gratitude for all
that was well and true behind the closed door of our old home.
Pluck and crush the lemon leaf off the tree innie agte jaart.
Keep its intensity of ceasing sap seeping beyond stem and branch:
A sacrament of the pilgrim’s parting. And then, later,
as you cross over where elands once roamed,
scatter the bits and pieces into the sunny breeze.
© michael weeder