Leaving

The date has come; the boxes are all stacked,
leaving pale squares where once the pictures hung.
The ghosts of photos, souvenirs, are packed,
the clocks are stopped, the pendulums have swung;
familiar noises banished. Here we sit,
nothing to do, for once: suspended time
can hold its breath and let the minutes knit
the final rows, and then cast off. The climb

into the future’s not so very hard
now all the work is done: decisions made,
the papers signed, that border crossed, the yard
cleared of dead plants, and every last bill paid.
The clocks are stopped, the pendulums have swung,
The ghosts of photos, souvenirs, are packed,
leaving pale squares where once the pictures hung.
The date has come. The boxes are all stacked.

D.A. Prince

If you have any thoughts about this poem, D.A. Prince  would like to hear them