barn is a happy chaos of dust and often useful things. Then one
morning it becomes purgatory. Necessary to don wings and commence
the reestablishment of order. As an angel I enter that space.
My mind seized by good purpose.
There is encouragement from
others. The hoped for perfect place that barns can be. Calligraphy
rather than the scrawling penmanship of putting off until
There will be achievement.
Parts will close in on perfection. Then a moment will come when I can
return those wings to their cupboard and then I will nod contentedly, just
as I did last year.
Others might recognize an analogy, but I
cannot afford to, because at the moment it is humid and hot and I am wearing