the day before she died Poetry set her meager house in order; i was there and said to her, "you need not do this terrible thing! you may yet live tomorrow, as today!--" and she with eye-flash silenced me. we emptied waste bins, locked the cabinets and set dust-cloths over furniture. quickly, quickly: sweeping floor-boards, folding shirts and collars, pressing sheets into deep drawers, tugging basemented knobs to stop the running water. i'd never seen her move before so somber, silent, sentient, so wrought with nervous energy. and at the end she stood quite still, centered in the largest room, looking carefully around. this was Time unlike all other--despaired of Mercy, jealous Death pacing without. "i cannot wait," she said, yet dared not rush ahead.
after her death i self-discovered this as Poetry's parting gift to us: she had left behind for us no need to sear our hearts with going through her temporal things.
