By: Mary Kane

This morning, I want to say something in praise
of the hoarders, who have so much love
for the physical world, so much room in their hearts

for every worn sofa, every only-a-little-bit-rusted
cast iron skillet, every idea or design living inside countless
nubs of pencils with ground-down erasers, every oh so useful

picture frame, screwdriver, nearly new spiral notebook. I love
the way these adorers of this earth and its human inventions
refuse to walk by a single dime-sized metal washer

ground into the pavement or dirt at our feet, how they bend down,
knees stiff with age, reaching out the knowing fingers of
so-human hands to pick up a little empty circle, hold it up

for inspection and blow it clean with their own breath
before pocketing it for storage later. Always, they have more room
on the crammed shelves of intention, always a little more

tenderness for what is discarded, left on the curbside,
gotten cheap in a box at a stranger’s yard sale. We are born
to an inevitable letting go of everything, our skin

letting go of its elasticity, our memories letting go of moments
when we drank tea with our grandmother, and summer afternoons
early in our marriage when we made love in a rented barn loft,

our strong bodies damp with sweat, the bright green tops of maples
all we could see outside our white-curtained windows,
our minds letting go the names of books and friends,

souls letting go the blood and bone of living, lovely
flowering bodies. So I want to give thanks for those
with crowded cupboards and mismatched, worn-out armchairs.

I want to praise those who cling to handwritten letters
in wrinkled envelopes, the stackers of paper-paged books
bound in leather, collecting dust in their personal libraries.

I want to stop in the midst of packing boxes, in the midst
of cleaning and dusting and decluttering, to glimpse into rooms
in the dark houses of our hearts, and give thanks for those who hold onto
the oft-disparaged and fiercely human impulse to hold onto.