on the weekends
that you shed
because I keep finding
pieces of you
around our little house
Funny
because some days
I spend a lot of my time
attempting to wipe away
all the things that are shed
around here
It is constantly settling
The remains of the day
work their way
into fabric
and tile
and faces
and respectable folk
wash
and
scrub
and
whisk
away
such things
But
after a week
of attempting to order chaos
it is nice
to rest
Plus the way that you shed
is different
anyway
Yours is more a
molting
The week has grown uncomfortably tight
and you
just
need
to
breathe
So you flit around the house
absorbing yourself
in the daily
which looks so different
on you
than on me
And as you cook
or iron
or fold
or polish
there is an exchange
As you pull me close
and smear me
with kisses
or encircle my frame
with the whole of you
there is an exchange
One skin
for
another
And by eventide
you are born
once again
I will wake in the morning
to find you
everywhere
hair in the sink
soup drips on the stove
grass clippings on the porch
But I'll try not to be so quick to
wipe it all away
Because this shedding of yours
it whispers to me
that life is always
being
made
new
