The wall colours change
Room size, and furniture too
Mementos get tacked up, with pins or hooks
Things are added, and some are taken away.

But my scarves remain on the back of the door
Dangling, just waiting to be –
Used. Worn. Cried into. Left and then remembered.
And without realizing, all holding a shade of grey.




Filed under nomad diaries, post-it poems

8 responses to “giraffe

  1. It’s interesting how we need our stuff. People left in sensory-deprivation tanks go mad. As much as we like to think of ourselves as rocks, we’re more like ephemeral clouds of thought. We need our stuff to ground us.

  2. Allison

    Most definitely. Having moved around so much, my stuff can fit in a box, but unpacking that box and finding forgotten treasures is the greatest feeling.

  3. That’s lovely. Makes me want to go and remove all my scarves from the door knobs on which they hang and loop them around my neck.

  4. That would make a great fashion statement. But also very practical in this cold weather. ;)

  5. ah, a scarf person. A girl after my own heart.

  6. i do love a good pashmina. :)

  7. It’s strange… I read this post the other night and I didn’t really know how to comment. Your stanzas at first glance so innocuous but ultimately so sad yet also hopeful.

    With words you’ve created a painting of sorts. Your scarves little splashes of colour, their fabric full of a thousand memories.

    Wonderful post Allison!

  8. I tend to only write (poems) when I’m feeling a bit blue, so that’s probably why it reads that way. But I try to find the silver lining.

    Thank-you for your words, very kind! :)

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