(unknown photographer, unknown subject, unknown whereabouts)
Or else, a bunch of hands would have to improvise a random show.
Awkward fingers moving in utter clumsiness in a heraldry dance,
Going in any direction, bumping on each other, like sheep against a fence.
Only a mothers' digits -like professional dancers- gracefully progress
To naturally form their protective nest over yours, known as caress.
All the rest, hesitant and sweaty, are waiting for rational's orders to act;
"Is it commitment, is it burden, is it too soon, or too late, does it lack tact?".
Drip, drip, drip, steady as heartbeat the serpentine hose feeds the vain.
Only the empty armchairs provide the silence one needs in his own pain
To feel the timely ticking of the bomb, in order to disarm the mess.
Then comes the sun and colors explode and it's spring,
Strawberries pop, nightingales sing, bodies undress,
And you made it with only a few scars. You can call it success.
The shutdown of a home is another lone wolf process.
Family pictures sleep in the round hat box with the skylight,
The surrogate ones move in another, not so privileged and bright.
Putting to rest every preciously handled subject all others call an object,
For the sole survivor is a ritual, a procession, not a project.
Then come strange hands to pack in haste more treasures unpossessed
To give them up for adoption to foster homes, or NGOs at very best
With acronyms for names, mighty causes, CEOs and PHDs
Who could not care less that your mother's ashtray carries memories.
To pay respect and not cast neglect is yours to do, while in this zone.
You need space and time alone for the closure of your home,
To take care of all; down to the last remembrance, if needed to access.
Your back aches, your head hearts, heart flutters under duress,
All sprinkled with flickers of accomplishment, nonetheless.
The black wolf left behind, either makes it alone
And thrives on his own devices, away from home
Or is eaten by other wolves that belong to a pack.
Natural history, no drama, just a fact.