The Attic

"Today I will climb to the attic and raise the blind, Where narrow heat lies thick and stale, confined In that closed room; and I will jar the window loose And pitch what is no use Among those random piles of yesterday's Right clothes, knick knacks sold on highways Claiming I was there; Furniture forever spare,, Those old collections of my former ways, And, hidden in that yellow haze, That tiny box of letters stuffed so tight With lovely lies to fill an empty night." So, saying, she ascended with a sigh, Breathed hard and deep, and then began to try To sift and sort vast rummages of time; But, moving up there wordless as a mime, She felt a present chill of missing hands, New urgency from packed away demands, Stares from gone eyes, a silent moan-- She was alone. She turned and went back down the stairs in sorrow-- "Perhaps. . . tomorrow."