Sweeping Song

slung round my neck, a sack, stone full
pebbles and pearls pecked for the pull
	and deposited
	undoubtedly mine
		(the finder keeper
		the dusty porch sweeper)
each wound with twine and fishing line
	accompanied wishing
	hush against each
	stone shiny-tumbled
	by lips brush

it hangs heavy on my chest
pushing down ribs
lungs fight for the lift
the breathing to shift
two years and counting
scouting for change
eyes on the tree line
and looking for rain
I lean on my broom
                        no rush

counting still
count with each brush
one hand entwined
the wickery thrush
wish out this rhyme
there is time
there is time
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