Poetry

So, poetry. Not that I think this is good enough that anyone would want to lift it, but just in case, the following poem is Copyright Julia Carver, all rights reserved.

Attic

Release the handle
Wood creaks in an elegant rotation
I step in

Resistance on the chain
CLACK. Let go, and it springs away
Around me yellow light sputters
Into existence

Like entrenched rock
The air here is permanent, utterly still
Reverence

The tang, like oranges
Taste of anticipation and excitement
Adventure

Creep towards the left
Away from bright, ordinary colors.
Dimmer light.

Boxes, boards, leaning frames, stacked.
Cumbersome to move among the awkward piles.
Step over.

Dust billows as I ineptly shift a box
In order to lift the lid and discover its contents.
Heavy.

Objects and decorations
Little snapshots of history
Stories

Some objects I recognize
Locked off memories spring forth
As I find:

Weathered stuffed animals
Who used to accompany me on grand adventures
They spoke then

Favored outfits - jackets and skirts of a size to fit a doll
I wore them when they were bigger
They've shrunk.

More often I find pieces of someone else's life
The permeating scent of stories and memories wafts heavily about them
Not mine to see.

Cold metal lid pulls reluctantly up
More clothing, of older, tired fabric
Unrecognized.

Back when she was wild years old
Not much older than I am now,
Mom wore these.

Layers of leaning boards, papers
Pull on a rigid, frigid metal edge
Unleans a painting

Where did my father find this?
A boat drifts toward me in plain, smooth brush strokes.
Venice!

The next painting comes away
An explosion of color,
Muted.

Red and orange and yellow
Muted by dust and crumbling age and dim lighting
Short strokes.

One by one
The layers lift free
Entrancing.

Not all here is marvel. To find buried treasure
You must stamp your shovel into the dirt.
I dig.

Familiar background noise
Brushing and scraping against each other
Are camping mats.

When exploration is satiated
Back out through the piles
I shuffle.

Back to the yellow light.
With the clank of the chain
It groans out.

Creak travels round again.
Only when I lean against the door does the latch give
A soft snick.