We pick things, pull things,
up from under, roots, weeds,
things we dropped, things to distract,
flowers to fill the spaces since vacated.
We pick things, pull things.
We keep things, store things,
in boxes, under beds, in sheds,
under sheets; your stool of support
where you watched us, running; out, off, gone.
We keep things, store things
things we didn’t know, then
how much we’d miss, later,
things we can’t pull up, now
no matter how deep we dig.
For my Nana Frances who died 13 years years ago on March 30th but is still very much with us, and her stool too.