Here’s a poem for you.
We should spring clean the rooms of ourselves, often. Pick
papers out of drawers, box old clothes, and wash the bedding. Scrub
floors, wipe handprints off walls, and Windex windows. To wade
in the slack water of self is to know peace. Introspection is key.
It’s the mind’s way of understanding, why I am the way I am,
and how the way you are affects me. And, why
beneath Black Oaks the bird-foot violet turns
its bluish petals inward, or the pink armadillo burrows
sand in solitude, its hard shell resilient. It’s important to understand
these things; why the stopped diapason of words you shuck
are the gnats of anger that assemble at dusk—ghosts
hard to notice until already standing in the middle. Or, why
thoughts that began as bones are stressed
to bone ash, and our beliefs, the peach pip layer
of a self, determine who we are is who we attract.