Dust Balls

Some consider it a shame.

That I greet dust balls by their name.

I'm accused of disarray.

I don't see it quite that way.

Maybe there's no inner space

To configure true false face.

I need my art. I crave my play,

To aid me through a too short day.

Though it's true that I may tarry

Pristine domesticity to carry,

One should note the stairs aren't blocked

Or my possessions overstocked.

I consider it a sign of life

That to this house I'm not a wife

Bonded to the things I own.

I figure that my time's on loan.

When ideas come to me,

They're the first things that I see.

I sweep the dust balls from my head

No broom to floor, paint brush instead.

That to me is satisfaction.

I now trust my own reaction.

I used to fret relentlessly

About what others thought of me.

Found that the time and energy

Invested in discrepancy,

Began to cause me so much grief

That I scrambled for relief.

This house was oh so very clean

While imagination waned too lean.

On balance scale I had to find

The workings of my inner mind.

I have those that come to me

Relaxing very comfortably

Without a frown upon their face

Me as me they do embrace.

I won't drown in dust ball mire

My situation's not that dire.

I will wield the broom of fate

But first myself I'll celebrate.

© grapher Oct. 2015