The past potentially is still right here
in all these items never thrown away
that hold the spark to bring a smile or tear
when phoenix-like uncovered one more day.

And now the bits and pieces rising still
are ever calling out to keep this word
that may be worthy evidence of skill
when cuckoo nestlings fool the mother bird.

Perhaps the future fate of all these things
will be a brash compiler's loved debris
from which my song will rise, from which past sings
like mocking birds' almost reality.

Unsorted items clutter all my space,
awaiting some dark unknown final place.

by Robert Stone, 28 February 2010