Wicker baskets
filled with aged potpourri
faint in smell 
and no longer swift, 
cloaked in greyed dust
from fan blades
calling to nose-irritating cotton candy
created in circles above;
the baskets with loosening skeleton,
a misshaped oval,
and aged home decoration
from a decade prior
compass the room
in different spots, 
regardless of the children’s absence 
or father passed, 
vacation, or home-time holidays; 
somehow the wicker basket 
remains steady as a rock,
weighing down the interior. 


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